Everything I Am
by FairKatharine
Summary: After the fall, the Consulting Detective finds himself fascinated by the woman who saved his life. On her part, Molly Hooper begins to understand that Sherlock Holmes is not who she thinks he is.
1. Prologue

A/N: I own nothing, only my ideas

P.S: If anyone is interested in Beta Reading, message me :)

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Molly's hands shook as she plunged the needle deep into Sherlock's flesh. She got it over with quickly, then began following his instructions, exactly as he asked her too. First came his shoes, socks, and belt. She then rapidly removed his shirt and trousers, throwing a white sheet over him that she'd brought from home. Just the thought of him lying naked on the table while she burned his clothes made her uncomfortable.

The mask- for the toxins from the leather and fibers in his clothes- fit snuggly in his black curls and over his slack jaw. She bit her lip. The cold sweat on his body hadn't dried. Afraid to touch him further, she sat in her chair and waited for him to wake up. The dark basement room he'd told her to go to after retrieving his body was unfamiliar to her. It was the sort of place that felt like death. Like murder.

Although Sherlock had beaten Moriarty, he was dead to the world. A fraud to the crowds that once idolized him. It was no victory.

His breathing stuttered like a car engine, soon he'd be able to move- she hoped. The blood across his face and bruising already flowering told her he'd be in pain. Narcotics didn't seem safe, judging by his conversations with John. Still, she couldn't help wishing she had thought to buy some cigarettes for him.

It was another hour before the twitching of limbs, lips, and eyelids produced a moan. Molly nearly tripped running to him. She checked his pulse, and started when his eyebrows pulled together in pain.

"Sherlock?" Her voice cracked. "Can you hear me?"

He grunted. Molly let go of a breath she'd unconsciously been holding in. Even as relief rested upon her, guilt descended. Dr. Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade... This relief would never come to them. For the rest of their days they would live with the horrible ache in their chest and a bitterness towards a dark world. He cared for them. That's what this was all about. He'd faked his death so he could protect them. Sherlock Holmes didn't just care for people, he loved them.

She wondered, as his face relaxed again, and his breathing started coming from deeper in his diaphragm, what would happen next. Her mind took her back to the night before. Her tired body ready for sleep til he slipped out of the dark lab, needing her.

Molly's hand brushed aside his curls, then tenderly felt his pulse again. His eyes snapped open, making her shriek.

"Molly." Though his first word after the Fall had been her name, it certainly wasn't crooned from his lips.

"Oh-Oh, I'm sorry, Sherlock, I- you scared me." She mumbled away, feeling hot, not just from the dying fire in the hearth.

He rolled his eyes. Her hands fumbled as she reached for the duffel bag. "These are the only things I had." She pulled out a mint colored cardigan, tight jeans, a faded gym shirt and a deep v-neck tee in a lime green. Though Sherlock was concentrating on sitting up, he had enough energy to look disgusted with the clothes she'd scrounged.

"I won't wear Moriarty's clothes."

"They're Jim from I.T's, if that makes you feel better." She had just saved his life, yet she got the feeling he wasn't about to stop complaining.

"Why did you keep them Molly? Not for sentimental reasons, you were embarrassed by your break-up. Doubly so, I'd imagine, after he was revealed to be James Moriarty." He took the cardigan, and begrudgingly took the jeans from her as an afterthought. "That was clever of you to keep them in case they were needed as evidence, but unnecessary after more than a year."

Molly packed her things quickly as he changed. "Keep the sheet."

"What time is it?"

"Ten."

Sherlock's eyes roamed the room, drifting from where she'd been sitting to the small window high in the wall above her. "John?"

Molly's heart broke a bit, at the tired sound in his voice. "He's safe. He was still at Barts when I left." His face was blank, the dried blood like a hand stretched across it. "He's probably with Mrs. Hudson, now."

"Where else would he be?" Sherlock demanded. He pulled the gym shirt from her hands. "Your father's sweater and old school gym shirt, you wear them to bed sometimes, judging by the worn logo and misshapen state. You can't bear to let them part from you- why?"

Molly expected him to answer his own question, but his gaze had steadied on her face.

"I-I'm sorry. Are you asking _me_?"

"Apparently." He waited.

"Um," It was surreal to her. Speaking about her Dad twice in the span of twenty-four hours. "He wore them both a lot. Not at the same time. The cardigan to church, the gym shirt when he would exercise in smelled very strongly of him for a while after his death. They don't anymore."

Sherlock nodded briefly. "Sentiment."

"Greif." She surprised herself by saying it out loud.

"What did they do with my coat?" He asked, she felt something twist insider at the realization that if he missed his coat this adjustment wasn't going to be easy on him.

"Scotland Yard, I think." Molly hadn't paid attention, in truth.

"No. John will have it." He stood up, walking to the door. He turned back to her as the door began to shut. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

The door shut. She sterilized the table. Stirred the ash in the hearth. Opened the tiny window, taking off her mask to breathe in the chilling London air. _I need you; Thank you, Molly Hooper._ Words that meant nothing trivial to Sherlock, and therefore she would hold them close to her heart for the rest of her life.

Her walk home was a long one. She realized she would have no trouble blending in with those Sherlock had left behind, because she was one of them. She would never see him again. She had saved him, but he was still dead. Her body began to cry, shaking in the cab and until she reached her flat. Sherlock Holmes was the best and wisest man she'd ever know.


	2. Nobody Knows

**A/N:** I own nothing, only my observations.

**P.S:** Thank you to Freewaygirl, anon, and briongloid fiodoir for your kind reviews! I was so inspired, I decided to post some more tonight!

Another thank you to all those who started following this story! I was sooooper encouraged by that :)

_ALSO: _I'd still love some beta readers! It doesn't have to be a permanent gig. I don't expect this to be an epic, but it will be a complete body of work, as they say. For more info, message me 3

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Sherlock watched John march away from his tombstone. _Grief,_ Molly had called it. Not sentiment. He'd managed to smuggle back his clothes, the first week after the Fall 221 B had been a disaster. The door was even unlocked when he'd gotten to it. His things were where they'd always been, the only exception being his scarf and coat thrown unceremoniously into a corner of his room. But John's were scattered around the flat, as if they couldn't find a place to belong.

_John had been highly emotional. He opened the door, headed straight to his chair and knocked over a stack of papers and books Sherlock had left haphazardly. Upset by the heavy coat that aided in the accident, he flung it into Sherlock's room, slamming the door closed. He hadn't done it carefully and damaged the door. John went to his own room and began packing. He packed two suitcases, then decided he'd come back to Baker Street to retrieve the rest- thus leaving a jumper and a few pairs of slacks in the kitchen. He'd taken tea and coffee in their place. Everything else was left._

This wasn't the sort of grief that made Molly keep her father's shirts. John wanted to get away from Sherlock's memory. He was angry. But the confession he'd made to an empty grave told him otherwise. He'd have to keep an eye on him. This was a John Watson who had been shattered. With the shaking hand that rested on the black tombstone, Sherlock ached with a dull pang in his stomach. _Concern_. He nearly choked as the feeling tightened his muscles. As soon as John was out of sight, he turned on his heels and left the way he'd come.

Molly Hooper began every day the same, he observed bitterly. There was nothing exciting about her. Lestrade wasn't a morning person. He stayed up late, but his schedule was always different. John hadn't left the new room he'd bought for himself since leaving Baker Street, and while that was concerning, it was still tedious. Mrs. Hudson was seeking comfort from her Pharmacist. That was a bad idea because the man seemed_ too unattached_ to be _unattached._

Everyone was coping but Molly. Each morning she labored with her coat and bags, tripped down the steps, and fumbled with the gate latch outside her door. Her expression was elsewhere. Obviously worrying about something.

Each afternoon, she would take her break, never longer than twenty-four minutes- probably watching some sort of crap television show on her phone. She'd return to the lab. Do an autopsy or two. Stay half an hour later than everyone else, clean up while listening to crap popular music, walk the first few blocks home, decide against it, and take a cab. She spent the rest of her night on the computer or T.V, he suspected, judging by the dim lighting of her window.

_Boring, boring, boring._

John was more exciting than she was, even with staying indoors all day.

And yet...

There was an elegance to her routine. He caught her daydreaming eyes more and more as the days lengthened. But there was still a sadness to her. It surprised him. Had she always been sad? Had he not seen it? Of course he'd seen it, he just didn't care.

One morning he felt a jolt of energy as he figured it out- she was a chronic introvert. Now he could see it- oh, it was plain as day- a dozen thoughts would flash through her head, she'd pick one and hide behind it. She was clever, then. To have so much inside her but to keep it to herself. _Molly Hooper was selfish._ He allowed a smug grin to play across his face as a co-worker approached her with a project outside Barts. Of course, she didn't give him what he wanted. She wanted to do those autopsies all by herself.

Yes, he'd solved Molly Hooper.

That same evening, as Sherlock gloated from the shadows across the street, Molly Hooper left the Barts crying. Her routine was the same, though. Nothing had happened to disrupt it. She must've been thinking about something, then, that made her cry. He crept along after her, watching her wipe her nose and eyes on her frilly cardigan. She didn't hail a cab, she wanted to be alone. Sherlock floundered, he'd just solved her- now she was changing her routine. Her face red, she stopped inside a bakery and grabbed a loaf of bread. She seemed somehow smaller near other people, he observed, as she fished for change to give an amateur cellist a block before her flat. Molly Hooper had never been small to him. Someone weak and overly self-conscious, yes. But observing her from this distance allowed him to focus on her in a bigger picture. She seemed small because she thought herself small. She didn't think she counted to anyone.

He crossed the street as Molly opened her creaky gate and struggle with her keys. It began to rain. He stood on the curb, watching her turn to close her door. He caught it, a moment before she saw him, a thought in her eyes that was pleading with the world. It was gone the instant she recognized him.

"Sherlock!" She rasped, dropping the bags, and running to open the gate for him. "Are you alright?"

She would expect him to ask for help. To ask for a limb, a look at a file. He didn't have anything to investigate. Lamely, he told her he was.

Molly's flat was smaller than his. It was painted a dirty beige and had pictures of black and white trees over the boxy blue sofa. She had an old television with a VCR, DVD player, and Wii. Her laptop was on her bed along with other clothes and books- it was a disaster. She rushed to close her bedroom door. The kitchen was very small and had a tiny island in the center which displayed last night's dinner and breakfast from that morning.

Molly Hooper was not a good housekeeper.

"So," She rushed on. "Would you like some tea? Coffee?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Coffee. Black, two sugars. As usual."

"Have you eaten?" She fidgeted with her coffee maker, spilling black grounds on herself and the counter.

"What day is it?"

She looked over her shoulder. "It's Friday."

"No, I mean the _date_." He sighed, sitting down on her sofa, which was uncomfortably low to the floor.

She told him, reappearing with a worried look on her face. "W-When was the last time you ate?"

"Four days ago." He responded tersely, having a staring contest with the cat emerging from the bathroom. "Your cat was in the shower."

"He does that sometimes." She was amused at disgruntled, brown creature.

"If you're so fond of it, why don't you hydrate it more? He's been drinking water from a leaky faucet." He began leafing through the stack of books on her coffee table. _Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice_, and a copy of V_ogue_ was a hopeless romantic. "What's this?"

"Vogue." Molly blushed.

"Did you have someone over recently that left it?" He asked, critically inspecting it.

"N-No, why?"

He looked her up and down. "You clearly don't pay any attention to it. It's never been opened."

She stammered to find a response. "I-I just. I thought I'd look through it. Co-worker suggested I read it."

"But you haven't, obviously." He tossed it aside and went to inspect her bookshelf.

"Sherlock," She blushed furiously. "Why are you here?"

"I don't have anywhere to go." He lied.

Her mouth opened into a small 'oh', then she retreated to get the coffee. "If you need a place to stay, you can stay here, if you want." Her voice jumped between octaves nervously. Why on Earth did she insist on being so flustered all the time?

He watched her prepare his coffee with the steady hands of a scientist, rather than the ones that frantically searched through her purse or messed with her hair. "I planned too." He had, hadn't he? Baker Street was out of the question, and staying anywhere else would be a risk. He wouldn't tell Molly he'd been sleeping alleys when he slept, which hadn't been much.

"...You can have the bed." She was rambling.

"The bed? No, I won't sleep in your bed, thank you."

She looked down into her cup, as if wishing she were drowning in it. "I-I can wash the sheets. I know it looked a mess in there, but I can clean it up quick."

"Molly," He felt his eyebrows raise in spite of themselves. "I don't wish to sleep in your bed because I doubt your cleanliness. I don't wish to sleep in your bed because it is yours."

"No, it's fine, really." She avoided him.

"Actually, I quite like the look of your sofa. I often slept on ours at Baker Street." He caught her stare. "Why do you have pictures of trees in your flat?"

"I think they're pretty." She sipped her coffee.

He grunted. "They're badly taken and pointless. Why do you have so many pictures of plants in here? You're a pathologist."

"Are you suggesting that if I were a botanist it would be appropriate for me to have pictures of trees, but because I'm a pathologist I should have pictures of dead bodies, or a kidney, or something?"

"Don't make jokes, Molly."

"Right, sorry."

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3 Songs to keep you company as you wait for the next installment:

-Two Headed Boy (parts one and two) by Neutral Milk Hotel

-Her Morning Elegance by Oren Lavie


	3. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper

A/N: I OWN NOTHING (SADLY, because this chapter is my baby)

I have so many new followers on this story! Thank you, all of you! I'd mention you all by name, but there are quite a few of you :) I stayed up very late with this one because A)I'm a perfectionist, and what Sherlock is to deductive reasoning, I am to character analysis and acting; B) this bit gave me so many feels, and, well, one thing lead to another... Thusly: I know it's a bit longer so I hope that doesn't put any one off!

P.S: Songs To Keep You Company-

-Jar of Hearts by Christina Perri

-Gravity by Sara Bareilles

-Men of Snow by Ingrid Michaelson

Molly tiptoed out of her room as quietly as she could. It was 5 A.M, and Sherlock Holmes was sleeping like a child on her sofa. A small part of her thrilled to see him sleeping so soundly. The gears that churned so quickly and mechanically during his waking hours seemed to have stilled- leaving his mind free to drift as anyone else's.

She could see him in her mirror from the bathroom as she brushed her teeth. How long had he been wearing that shirt? She should get him some clothes. And a toothbrush. Some shampoo...

Her mind was listing things now at a rapid pace, she scampered to the kitchen- curse cold floors in the morning- and wrote them down on a notepad. Toby rubbed up against her legs, reminding her to feed him. She made coffee. Her morning routine had an electric energy to it, with Sherlock sleeping in the next room. She was making breakfast for two, not one. It was silly, Sherlock was perhaps the least companionable person in the world (with the exception of his friendship with John, of course). But, still. She had someone to be _around _now.

"You're making a terrible racket." She had woken the beast, it seemed. Molly smiled to herself and realized that _of course _Sherlock Holmes wasn't a morning person.

"Sorry!" She squeaked, cracking an egg a bit too vigorously and watching a white bit of shell hide itself in the frying egg-white. What was it called again? "Sherlock, what's the technical term to call an egg-white?"

He ruffled his curls, making himself appear the mad scientist. After a pause he said, "I believe the word 'albumen' is commonly used. Why?"

"Oh, just-just curious. Silly, sorry." She frowned at the mess she was making of the yolk and albumen.

"I'm surprised I knew that." He lay back down. "Why do I know that?"

"It's interesting, I guess." Molly commented, immediately wishing she would shuttup when the sleepy Sherlock walked into her kitchen, her magenta throw wrapped around himself tightly.

His eyebrows twitched in annoyance. "It isn't interesting at all. It's the sort of thing I usually delete."

She handed him a plate, apologizing for the early hour.

"You didn't have to make me breakfast. I won't eat it."

She bit her lip self-consciously. "That's fine, too. I guess." Despite his rejection of food, he sat across from her while she ate. She felt clumsy under his stare, cursing at herself to stop blushing.

"You've pinned part of your hair back." He observed.

She fumbled with her fork. "Felt like trying something different."

"Unlikely. Your routine and style is the same every day. Your outfits are frilly and ridiculous for working in a morgue, but you're always sensible with your hair because it gets in your way. You're trying to impress somebody today, then, someone you want respect from. You've put product in your hair- this person is important to you. You've made a small breakfast and put too much milk in your coffee, you're clearly nervous. You shouldn't be, though, you can't change who you are. It's no use trying to improve yourself, Molly, so I wouldn't bother and just stick with putting your hair up." He glowed with the cup of coffee in his hand and the deduction flowing off his tongue, biting through his teeth, stabbing her chest.

She blinked furiously, stilling the shivering muscles in her chest and stomach. Sherlock was forever crushing her attempts to seek his approval. Why would she think that his need for help or a place to stay would mean he'd changed the way he felt about her?

She swallowed and gave a tight smile, "You're probably right. You always are. He knows me, anyway. It wouldn't make a difference."

He grinned shortly, and sipped his coffee. When Molly finished breakfast, she gathered her things for work. He watched her from the sofa, over the screen of her laptop. "John upset you." He said to her, suddenly, breaking her out of the rush around her flat, searching for the laptop's sleeve.

"How did you know?" She gaped, then bit her lip when she spotted him with the computer.

"I didn't read your e-mail, but you have a note here to reply to his message. Decided to ask you rather than discover your password."

"Oh." She sat down on the coffee table, pulling her case from under his jacket. "He asked me if I'd done your autopsy."

His face remained watchful, he truly did remind her of a cat sometimes.

"I told him I had." She supplied.

"Yes, _and?" _He emphasized his impatience by jerking his head back to examine her ceiling.

"And- and... He...He asked me if I'd helped you fake your death." She pushed her hair back behind her ears.

Sherlock seemed stunned, and a little pleased. "Clever, John. What else?"

Molly tugged the hem of her skirt, deciding she shouldn't wear brown tights anymore. "Actually, he just kind of- well, skipped around. He apologized for asking me. Said it was mad. He misses me, and Mrs. Hudson. Can't watch the news, it makes him angry. He-" She sighed. "He told me that you wanted him to tell us all you'd been a fake. But he said that I shouldn't believe what they say, despite your last wishes."

It was taking everything in her not to start crying again. It wasn't so much his awkward message, but the way in which he wrote it. It was John, all over. He missed Sherlock more than she suspected his flatmate could ever understand.

Sherlock slapped her laptop closed and threw off the blanket. He paced. He huffed. "He hasn't left the his room. His things were still at Baker Street. He's in denial..." Off he went, rocketing down tracks, cutting through steam like a train. His thoughts were connected to his tongue, and Molly couldn't keep up with it. It was dizzying.

"He misses you. He loved you. That's why he's acting the way he is." Molly stood up, anxious to leave for work, but worried Sherlock would do something rash.

Sherlock turned. "_Love," _he spat. "Molly Hooper, please keep your over-romanticized emotions to _yourself."_

She stepped backwards. "You-How- John," She stammered foolishly. "He was your _friend, _Sherlock. Did you know the last comment you ever left on his blog was a joke about suicide? That's what made him write to me. He doesn't know how to cope with this, and- and..." She flushed.

Sherlock was gazing at her blankly.

"I'm sorry." Molly turned away, checking to be sure she had everything. "Nevermind. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," He snapped. "I did what I did to protect him."

His words struck her badly. She felt a swell from her feet and throat as she'd had when she confessed to him that she saw his sadness. "He would've died for you, _really _died." Embarrassed, Molly fled her flat without waiting for a response.

The stench of chemicals and death permeated from the body before her. It was a dark haired woman. Cause of death, suffocation. It wasn't murder, she felt sure. But it felt just strange enough that she was certain Sherlock would've been able to pick up on something she hadn't- whether important or not. She drew her white sleeve across her forehead. She was tired and ready to go home. Maybe she'd go home early tonight. Watch the next episode of _Doctor Who_. She cringed. No, not that. Sherlock would hate it.

Come to think of it he'd hate anything she would want to watch.

Sherlock Holmes really was the worst and cruelest man she'd ever known. She glanced down at the woman's discolored face and jotted down a few notes. Alright. He wasn't really, but just for once she'd like to be angry with him.

The only time before that morning she'd stood up to him had been on Christmas. He'd been jovial- as much as Sherlock Holmes could be expected to be at a Christmas party. She'd told John, and the rest of the room by extension, that Sherlock had complained about him going to visit his sister. Sherlock retaliated quickly, before she'd understood what was happening.

_"So, you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him. In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."_

_Molly felt her limbs go cold. She didn't have a boyfriend. What was he talking about? Her eyes darted to the bags she'd brought in, and nearly dropped her glass as he carried on. _

_"Oh, come on. Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag. perfectly wrapped with a bow, while the others are slap-dashed at best. Must be someone special, then! The shade of red echoes the lipstick, either an subconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way Ms Hooper has __**love **__on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is made clear by the fact she's given him a gift at all. That always suggests long term hopes, however forlorn. And that she's seeing him tonight is evident from the make-up and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..."_

_She tried to laugh it off, but her voice choked on her humiliation She wanted to swallow herself up like a black hole, she wanted to leave. She wanted to hide from John and Greg, for whom she had gone from an object of wonder to an object of pity in only two minutes._

_"You always say such horrible things..."_

_He was surprised by the gift. His face was unreadable to her, she waited for him to wash over her as if she'd asked him on a date and he'd asked for his coffee with two sugars. _

_He closed the space between them._

_"I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."_

_They were the heaviest words she'd ever heard him speak to her before. They were as real as the gentle kiss he put on her cheek. _

_She had embarrassed him with the comment about John. He'd attacked. He'd felt guilty. '_Oh', _she thought. How could he see every bit about her- her silly present, remember every detail, and be so unaware that it was all for _him?

_It was always for him._

_"...Always, always..."_


	4. On The Side Of The Angels

A/N: I own nothing!

Okay guys, thank you SO much for the follows and reviews! You're all too kind and I've felt massive heaps of guilt for taking so long with this post!

SO, I have a question for you! What with my schedule, would you rather I post as I write them, or take a month hiatus and write a whole bunch so I could post weekly at a time? It's up to you! Let me know!3

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Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The wind cut through the darkness, pulling at his limbs. Once he hit the marble floor, he imagined his coat materializing around him. He turned up the collar and buttoned it, passing the dimly lit corridors of his Mind Palace till he reached the room he wanted.

221 B was his true home, the memory of it eased tension in his shoulders. Each object in it signified something. There was the apple_, I. O. U _carved in it as freshly as the day Moriarty had visited. There was his skull where John hid cigarettes from him. And there was John's laptop. He scanned the keys , remembering John's password. But he was here in the 221 B mind-compartment for something else. He tried to expand all the memories of John's blogs. He tried to remember John in the apartment, other things that would lead him to predict what Dr. Watson could be doing at that moment.

Nothing was of any value to him, not for this. Not for researching sentiment. Love, Molly had said. Love was a foolish emotion. Messier in platonic relationships than romantic ones. It bred loyalty and caring, things that were unwelcome to the independent.

Sherlock frowned. John did those things, more so than Mycroft or even Mrs. Hudson. 'Don't be so weak,' he grimaced at the laptop, slamming it closed. 'Love is an affliction, John, not a reward.'

The mahogany and oak doors of his different rooms were labeled with a brass placard. There was a Historic wing, a Math and Science wing, a Memory wing, and a geographical wing. All the miscellaneous bits found a room in the hall outside the Memory rooms. He paced those halls, turning over the bitter effects of friendship. He ought never have let John in. John cared too much for him now; Molly was correct. He was grieving. It was unlike the way Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson coped. He was isolating himself again. Why?

He needed to think, he needed to get John to move- to start taking Moriarty's network. How to mobilize him without alerting him that Sherlock had faked his death...The further he got from his room in 221 B, the more disoriented he became. Memories stronger with each step, overwhelmed him in waves.

_"She's dying you machine... You stay here if you want. On your own."_

_"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."_

_"No. Friends protect people"_

He winced. How could John have been so dense? Had he not been flat mates with Sherlock long enough to see what he had been doing? He deserved to be hurt. He deserved this betrayal.

_"Look up. I'm on the rooftop. I-I can't come down, so we'll have to do it like this."_

His throat burned at the echo of his own carefully chosen words. He'd very nearly scripted it- everything he was going to say. John would've picked it up. But as he'd gone on, it became clear that his friend had been more concerned about him than the words he was speaking.

_"What's going on?"_

_"An apology...It's all true." _He blinked, the door before him blazoned "_The Final Problem." _He didn't know why'd kept this memory. It was something he wanted to hide, but couldn't bear to delete.

He stepped up to the edge of the roof in his mind.

_"What?" _He saw him, he could see him down below. Sherlock wondered if he hadn't been able to see John if it would've been easier.

_"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."_

**I.O.U**

_"Why are you saying this?" _

_"I'm a fake."_

**I'll burn you.**

Moriarty had ensnared him. John was his weak spot. He hadn't known until then how alone he had been till he'd met John Watson. He'd needed John's friendship as much as John had needed his. John's words were drifting further and further away from him. And Sherlock shook, there on the edge of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

**Falling is just like flying, only there's a more permanent destination. **

_" The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes."_

**...It turns out you're ordinary...**

_"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met__—the first time we met—you knew all about my sister, right?"_

**...Just like all of them...**

_" Nobody could be that clever."_

**I will burn...**

_" You could."_

**... **_**The heart **_**out of you.**

_" I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Its just a magic trick."_

**...I did tell you. **_**But did you listen?**_

_"No. Alright, stop it now."_

John missed the clue. He'd missed it because of his fear, his caring, his loyalty. John was his only friend. He'd lost him forever.

**You and me, Sherlock. And our problem. The Final Problem...**

_"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move." _He reached out a hand, a ridiculous gesture... But he'd captured the moment in his mind. Locked it away.

**You're me.**

"_Alright." _John had taken a step back. His memory was clear, he could almost see his worried expression though so far up.

**You're me.**

_" Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" _Sherlock felt it. The ache of greif and love that Molly had reminded him of. Feelings he tried to suppress- feeling he didn't care about. But as he re-enacted his suicide for the hundredth time, the pain of guilt didn't go away.

**Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.**

_"Do what?"_

**Thank you.**

_" This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

**You're on the side of the angels...**

Moriarty's echoes in his mind were maddening. He hadn't listened. He'd wanted to be clever. Now no one believed in him.

_" Leave a note when?"_

He was on the side of the angels, but he wasn't one.

_" Goodbye, John."_

**Bless you. **

...

When Molly got home, Sherlock was tossing and turning on the sofa. She wondered if he'd moved from it all day. There were a few books, and his jacket had been tossed over her chair. She moved closer, wondering if he would be more comfortable on the bed, perhaps they could switch on and off nights-

He was sweating, the curls damp on his face. He was having a nightmare. Her maternal instinct kicked in, and she reached out to him, calling his name.

His eyes snapped open, startling her. "You were having a nightmare," her voice sounded pathetic and simpering.

He huffed. "I did not. I was thinking."

Molly smiled in spite of herself. "Oh."

"Moriarty." He sat up, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt, standing up to pace.

Molly nodded. "He's dead."

"He had me figured out. I'd gotten boring. I missed something. What have I missed?" He had the expression he wore when he wanted a cigarette. Molly wasn't clever enough to try and appease him, so she settled with a distraction.

"I bought some clothes for you, if they don't fit I can exchange them." Molly gestured to the grocery bags on the table.

Sherlock paused, quickly rifling through the bags. "Is this how you think I dress?"

Molly stammered. "I just thought-"

"No you didn't. You bought clothes you'd think I'd like to wear. What if someone noticed you buying men's clothes?" He examined the cheap stitching in the button downs and trousers.

"I suppose they'd think I was doing it for family, or a boyfriend." She tried to hide her embarrassment, thankful that he was in one of his moods to brush past her.

He grunted, examining the the toothbrush and soap she'd bought for him. She had done tolerably, he supposed.

"Boyfriend. More likely." He scanned her over once. "You need to work on a cover, Molly. If I'm to be staying here."

"Oh, are you?" She tried to sound pleasant and not cautious.

"Evidently you think I am." He lifted up a towel, as if it's existence were silly and childish.

"If you don't want it, I can take it back." She tried not to be frustrated, but she was tired. She breathed in and back-pedaled. "Um, Sherlock, I'm going to use the shower, do you mind?"

He shrugged and reached for another book. What difference would her routine or conduct make to him?

...

Molly had brought home chinese. And, because he had nothing else to do, he ate some of it. Her apartment was tacky to him, though her books and DVD library were extensive. Obviously, she prefered to keep to herself, which was good for him. She was also a willing candidate, he realized. He could use her to get to John. It would take some manipulation, but he doubted she would object seriously.

Molly dashed awkwardly from her room, skipping across the floor in her terry-cloth robe. It was blue, and quite old. He raised his eyebrows at her race to the water closet. She wasn't comfortable with his being there, yet she seemed genuinely pleased to host him. He wondered over this while leafing through an old text book of hers. Obviously, she felt obligated in some way, for whatever the reason she-

Narrow, youthful notes pierced their way through the steam. He turned his head toward the bathroom where Molly had disappeared. The amber light under the door glowed, clean smells steaming up the flat. And Molly Hooper, his pathologist, was singing in the shower.

She didn't have a good voice, it was rather a common sound, but there was a ring to it that fascinated him. It was youthful and confident, only not on her lower notes. She must sing when she thinks, he observed. He rolled his eyes when she stopped abruptly, rightly embarrassed. He returned to the couch when the water turned off, Toby the cat jumped near him and nested.

Molly brought a cloud of flowery smells in with her from the bathroom, and locked her bedroom door behind her. Sherlock huffed, she was always caring far too much about others. Molly Hooper was somewhat baffling to him. She was boring, but continued to surprise him. It was a game of patience to see when she'd do something worth examining.

The pathologist wore pink polka-dotted pyjamas. He thought to ask her why the cliched style was something she found fashionable, when she again approached him about sleeping arrangements.

"I can't imagine it being comfortable," She rushed. "I don't mind switching on and off at least."

"Why is this important to you?" Her apartment was far too small, he decided.

The expression that crossed her face was overly thoughtful- tedious. She always so carefully thought about what she wanted to say- she would be far more interesting if she didn't. "I care for you, and you're my guest."

Her body language was confident in what she had to say, even if her mouth wasn't. "Have I said something wrong?"

"No, it's just, manners." She sipped her tea from a mug.

He picked through the books he'd pulled from her shelf. "You're either overcompensating or you feel guilty."

Molly went still. She was thinking about something. He could tell from her quietness, the way she kept it hidden. "Do it out loud," He said at last.

"I'm sorry?" Molly gaped.

Sherlock jerked around on the sofa, trying to find a more comfortable position. "Think. Out loud. Do try to be intelligent, and use proper grammatical structure."

"What-" she wasn't breathing.

"Oh, good heavens, just speak, Molly. I need a distraction." His mind kept turning to the situation with John.

"Right. Um, I-" She stammered. "I had a long day at work."

"Any autopsies?" He prompted her, motioning with his hands. She could be so slow at times.

"Yes. One. She, well, there was something a bit off about it. Not a murder, but I felt like I missed something." She let go of a nervous laugh. "I sort of expected you to come by and look after I messaged Lestrade."

"Bring it here!" He clapped his hands, rubbing them together hungrily.

"Oh, I don't think I can do that!" Molly squeaked.

He swung his legs off the blue sofa. "Why not? Bring it a bit at a time, if you like."

She was catching his enthusiasm, curious about experiments, but wouldn't take the bait. "I'd lose my job, and your cover, I'm sorry, but I couldn't possibly-"

"Why not?" He asked.

Molly lips struggled. "Sherlock, I just can't!"

Her flustered expression pleased him. "You can, but you choose not too."

"Yes, it would be very unhygienic, and-" She caught her breath. "What would you do with it?"

"Examine it, of course." He picked up an anatomy textbook. "Where did it seem strange?"

She pointed to the areas where there'd been broken capillaries. "Not enough to be of any extreme importance-"

He raised an eyebrow, pressing he palms together. "Anything can become important. You should observe with all of your senses, start with everything and eliminate what is impossible."

Molly's eyes were dilated. The lighting, he supplied. "Try and remember what seemed unusual about them."

With her eyes closed, he could study her. Her hair was drying slowly, and her skin clear. She was healthy. Molly took a long time, it seemed to him, till she opened her eyes again. "Sorry," she yawned. "Dozed off a bit."

She was tired. Sherlock was less annoyed than he thought. "Working in a morgue, and a potential murder case is not interesting enough for you, Ms. Hooper?"

She rubbed her eyes, the pink sleeves of her fading pyjamas falling down her arm. "I'm just tired. Sorry."

"Think of something else then." The hour wasn't so late, he could utilize her presence longer.

...

Molly closed her eyes listening to his hyperactive chatter. She was nearly asleep, and despite his presumptuous behavior, she could tell he was pleased to have company.

"You must've had a boring day." She said aloud. It was easier to do so with her eyes closed.

She heard his familiar sigh. "I never waste time."

"Of course, I only meant-"

"No, don't do that." His tenor was annoyed.

Molly continued carefully. "What did you do all day?"

"If I had wanted to discuss my own day I would've spoken of it. I want to know about you." She had frustrated him now. "You're puzzling to me, Molly."

She opened her eyes, trying to take all of him in as he did her. "Wha- How?"

"You trust me. You're always there, and you see through me somehow." There was a pause. Molly was certain he could hear her heart pounding blood through her veins like water from a faucet. "Anyway," He awoke from his furrowed thinking. "You're disillusioned."

"What do you mean?" Molly sat up, his draped coat brushing on her skin.

He leaned back, studying her in a way that was not at all flattering. "You're malleable. You care for me too much. What if I had made up Moriarty? You put yourself in danger."

She pulled at her pyjama strings, re-tying them. "You could never be like Jim."

He blanched at the use of his name. "You're like John Watson, Molly, and if you're not careful I'll break you. I'll tarnish your life as I've tarnished his."

Sherlock's voice was monotoned and clipped, stinging her in a part of herself that she had tried to conceal from him. "It doesn't matter. You've already broken me. I-I don't care," She looked away from him. "You didn't tarnish his life. You saved it. You saved all of us."

His face was sunken in on itself, blank.

"Sherlock Holmes," She thought of reaching out and taking his hand, placing a her own on his cheek. Neither were possible. "You're brilliant, but incredibly ignorant."

His eyes flickered to hers.

"Don't be offended, I only meant," She calmed herself. "You're important. To me. To him." She fled for her room. "If you need anything, just ask."

...

He sat, watching her door, for who knew how long. He found himself stalking the halls of his Mind Palace. More troubled now with Molly than John. They were undeniably similar. But there was something in her nature that made her more of a mystery than John. At times she was as hard to read as The Woman, and others as easy to read as Mycroft. She could say so much, and yet say nothing of real consequence.

He stopped at one door in particular, and upon turning it's handle, the light zapped him to alertness. The Lab was white, almost too bright. He took in everything at once, scanning the shelves, the surfaces of tables, looking for something, for-

The object drew him in, like a bullet, and rotated before him. Styrofoam cup, exactly four ridges. The exact shade of lipstick she'd had on the day he'd met him. He suppressed his frustration at remembering such a trivial detail. The coffee itself was important, otherwise it wouldn't be there.

_"...I didn't know what you liked, so, I just put in two sugars and some of the dry creamer..."_

Ah, yes. He'd decided that Molly made the proportions wrong and left it to her. She didn't like it either, evidently, because she took one sip and the coffee was left by both of them till it was as cold as the temperature she kept the lab.

It was there to remind him to ask for his coffee Black with sugar from then on.

It had also signified his first meeting with Molly. Mike Stamford had introduced them, under the pretense of Sherlock being interested in an educational conversation. Naturally, he'd interviewed her and found her suitable. She would do, he had supposed.

Yes, Moriarty had beaten him, in the end. It was a clever poison- crisp and honeyed- to separate him from John. But he hadn't counted Molly.

He left Molly's cup with her lipstick pressed to it's rim and locked The Lab behind him.

His pathologist.

His friend.

Moriarty had missed Molly, Sherlock had underestimated John.

If they were the players left to decide the resolution of Sherlock and Moriarty's war, then the game was afoot.


	5. Questions Of Science And Progress

A/N: This story is writ on water

okay, so this came out later than I intended. Each one is getting longer though, so hopefully that's a good thing in your eyes!

Thank you, as always, to those lovelies who reviewed, favorite-d, and followed this story. It's a tremendous encouragement! If you all have any questions or comments, don't hesitate to PM or leave a review. I'll start posting responses here :)

* * *

Molly tried to give a friendly smile to the man waiting for her in the corner of the cafe. Her small wave seemed like the most inadequate of greetings, considering they both hadn't seen each other since the day before Sherlock's suicide.

Her mouth had gone dry, her throat now clogged with it's recent fluids. She coughed a little as she setting her purse down.

_"Try to take him all in at once," _Sherlock had told her. "_It's no use trying to read him. Look to his hands." _

His hands were folded in his lap. Molly was already frustrated with herself. Sherlock had basically hoped to use her as a hidden camera against his best friend, but would find her observational skills lackingin his eyes. No, it was no use trying to be Sherlock Holmes. She decided to observe as herself, the Pathologist.

John's wry smile was cracked and weary- he was dehydrated. The veins in his hands stuck out pronouncedly. In fact, his whole skin tone seemed to have paled and darkened- the circles under his eyes seemed to have gained a weight that burdened him.

"You seem tired," She looked away quickly, noticing he'd caught her scanning him over. "I haven't seen you in awhile."

He shook his head; "Don't apologize. It feels like ages since I've had someone look at me that way."

She felt a lump rise in her throat. "How-how've you been?"

John's cup clinked against the saucer. She knew the hesitation before the answer well. He wouldn't lie to her, he trusted her (which only made her feel immeasurably guilty). Just the same, he wanted to spare her more pain. "Empty."

Molly nodded, twisting her napkin in her lap. "What do you mean?"

He looked up, sucking in his lip a little with the deep breath. He looked out the window, at the people passing by. "I used to look out at these streets and see a battlefield. It was a place where we'd have adventures." He shook his head. "It sounds childish."

She leaned forward, knowing better than anyone the fragile tie between one's words and one's heart in days such as these. She hadn't known John as well as she ought have, she realized. She'd only ever seen him through Sherlock's eyes, and not her own. But she couldn't let him collapse in on himself the way she had after her father's death. "It doesn't." She bit her lip when he didn't acknowledge her right away. "I-I loved him." The words, once released, rushed out with an energy and brokenness she hadn't expected. The words caught in her throat. "I pined after him like a school girl. He-" She could imagine him now, pacing her flat, abusing her possessions to amuse himself. "I couldn't ever get him to notice me. He was so heroic in my eyes. So brilliant. I loved him from the first moment, the first time. I-" John offered her a handkerchief.

"I know, I know." He squeezed her hand from across the table. The soft brown of his eyes, and the gentleness of his expression bathed her in a safety she hadn't felt in a long time. "I thought you did. He was a right bastard to you. I'm sorry."

Molly's mouth dropped slightly.

A mixture of pain and self-consciousness washed over him. "That is to say, he was a fantastic man. But a bastard."

Molly offered a tentative smile. "I can't imagine what it was like to live with him."

John's eyes, though weary, sparked. "Well, you work in a morgue, so I bet you do a bit." They nearly laughed over that. "Were you the one who gave him the eyes?"

She couldn't help the nervous snicker that relieved tension in her shoulders. "That was real?"

"Oh, come on. Where'd he get them if not from you?"

Molly knew where, but she couldn't speak for the fragile mirth between them.

"The thumbs, then. That had to be you!"

She blushed, trying to keep still despite her shaking.

"I suppose you gave him the head, as well?" John's chuckling was boyish. Why hadn't she gotten to know him before now?

Once their giggles had died down, John sighed. "It's good to see you, Molly. I knew you'd understand."

She swallowed. "Understand?"

He looked back out at the street. "All these people, they never knew. I want to tell them all how important he was, how they have to believe him... And the next minute I don't want anyone to see me. I want to be left alone."

She nodded, for the first time noticing the way he seemed to carry himself so stiffly. It was such a contrast to the words he trusted her with.

John cleared his throat. "I still can't really think about it." He shook his head.

Molly wished she could forget Sherlock's request. But she couldn't let him down. Not now. "Did- They said you saw him." She hated herself for asking.

John nodded, a different man in front of her now. "I can't forget it, Molly. It plays over and over in my head."

The silence muted the activity around them. "His body..." Molly began. She couldn't ask the questions Sherlock wanted her too. She couldn't. Not all of them.

John gave a tight nod. Sipped his tea, as if to tell her it was fine with him for her not to finish that sentence.

"I'm sorry I wasn't at the funeral." She mumbled, falling in the chasm between them.

He shook his head. "Understandable. Mrs. Hudson got pretty worked up-" He sucked in the air, and leaned on the table, capturing her gaze. "Molly. If you need anything, ever, you tell me."

She felt naked. "Wh-What?"

"I just, We're all so... freakish. We're odd. Alone." He returned, once again to the window. "Any minute. Any one of us could be gone."

He looked back at her. "Don't give up."

"I-I won't." Molly trembled. "John, I'm sorry I never-"

He shook his head. "It's fine. You're fine. We all fell under his spell."

Molly wanted to shake him. To shake Sherlock. Was there truly need for this?

_"There will be people watching him. Any of them could be armed. You're both in danger." _Sherlock's warning pricked her conscience.

"I will always believe in him." Was all she could stammer out.

His eyes lit, slightly. Their conversation switched to work and housing. He was going to buy a flat not far from hers, was applying to a few hospitals, including Barts. Molly said she'd put in a good word. By the end of their meeting, Molly was trying to phrase out how to ask him out again in her mind. She'd asked only a third of the questions Sherlock had wanted her too. John surprised her, though.

"Molly," He pushed in her chair after helping her out of it. "I know... It might be too soon, but would you mind if we met again? This was really nice. Good to see a familiar face."

They exchanged information, with Molly's face burning in the street lights. She watched him turn and leave out the back window of the cab he'd gotten her, his limp carrying him back into the battle.

* * *

"Limping?" Sherlock's face dropped. Molly wasn't sure what she had been expecting after the finale of her story, but it wasn't that.

"I thought he hurt himself, or something..." She panicked. Had she missed something crucial?

His eyes shot back and forth before him. _"Don't _think _Molly."_

She frowned. "What?"

"For all your training you _still _refuse to access all of what you could be. So if you're only going to get underfoot by trying to contribute, it would be better if you let me do all the analysis." He fell backwards onto the blue sofa, wincing as his wounds from the fall were still not fully healed.

Molly left the room, shutting the door behind her. _"Bastard" _John had said. Yes, he was that.

An hour or so later, she heard a muted call from the other room.

"Sherlock?" She opened the door a little bit.

"Yes, could you hand me that note book?" He pointed to the black journal on the coffee table not two feet away from him.

"It's right there, though." She said, confused. Did he need more pain killers? Had she missed something while trying to patch him together again?

"I'm in the middle of a thought." He held out a hand.

Molly stared.

Sherlock studied her for a moment. Then, his eyes lighting up, said; "Do you wear reading glasses all the time?"

Molly was thrown. "I-I sometimes do. I'm supposed too, but I-"

"They look very natural on your face." He gave her that short grin he was so dashing at.

"Thank you," She handed him the notebook. "I'm meeting with John for dinner tomorrow. Do you think-"

He flipped through his scribbles. "Good."

"I thought I could ask him the rest of the questions." She still didn't know what he was researching, or planning. But as long as she could help she would.

"Molly," Sherlock looked up. He had been blank, so listless, for so long. When he wasn't going through fits of obsession with John and the outside world, he would sit quiet and still for hours. It was this blank look in his eyes that turned up unexpectedly towards her. "We need to redress my injuries."

She was sure, then, he hadn't been listening to her. He hadn't been listening to her for a week and a half. Ever since he'd got there. Some part of him was locked away in that brilliant head of his, lost inside himself. This was more than sadness, this was something she couldn't understand, something she couldn't help him with. It wasn't loss, or grief, or any human feeling she and John could relate too. It was more than that. She discovered at that moment, the secret John must've known to be able cope with him. Sherlock wasn't Spock, or a computer. He was a god, he was like a doctor, or a dying man. He felt things, he did. They overwhelmed him. If he couldn't categorize them and lock them away in tiny boxes inside his head, he worked, actively, to reject them. He didn't want to care. He didn't see the point in it.

Her heart ached more with each dark button she undid on his purple shirt. Had it been any moment but that, her face would've been scarlet, and she would've chattered away nervously. The discoloration of his bruises didn't worry her, that was to be expected. But Molly worried instead over the dead space in his eyes. The _emptiness. _He was hollow, systematically deleting the emotions running rampant inside him.

He may not have died, but he was no longer the detective he used to be.

* * *

She was better prepared this time, and she'd gotten from John all that Sherlock had wanted to know. Every exact detail of his new living arrangementsl. Molly began to feel comfortable with him, which had always been easy for her with anyone but Sherlock. John, of course, noticed this.

"You're such a warm person, Molly." He said, drinking more of his wine. "You never used to be that way."

She shrugged. "I suppose I get easily flustered."

He shook his head. "No, he _unnerved you._" John's teasing tone was a warning. He'd had enough to drink to take his edge off. Molly would still have to remain guarded- she couldn't slip up while reminiscing over Sherlock. "He did it to everyone."

Molly chewed her food as daintily as possible, feeling awkward. "Yes."

"Why'd you let him walk over you?"

She tried to shut out the memory that rushed at her. The memory she hated most. He'd kissed away her tears on the same sofa Sherlock now slept in. He'd left comforting, cool whispers in her ear. Coaxed her out of her shell with warm lips under her jaw...

_"Why do you let him walk over you?"_

_"I don't know. He just is so intelligent..."_

_"You're intelligent, Molly."_

_"Please, Jim..."_

_"You are." He bit her ear, making her squeak. "You're _my _adorable_ _mouse, no one else's. Don't let his cleverness scare you, sweetheart."_

_She giggles, but stops. His light, teasing kisses no longer comforting in the thrill of a new fling. "I'm silly. Sorry. You're a lovely person, you don't deserve this."_

_He tweaks her nose. "I'm the silly one. Let's _talk. _That's what you need right now." He pulls her up, wraps an arm around her. "Tell me about this detective."_

_"He makes me loose control, Jim. I'm sorry, I shouldn't be-" _

_He makes a clucking noise and hushes her with a finger on her lips. _

_"He just... burns me up. Burns the heart out of me."_

_Jim's grip loosens. "Really." Then, "How so?"_

_"He's so clever, he just burns like a fire. It sounds silly..." She pushes on, a squeeze of encouragement from Jim. "I can't get him out of my mind."_

_"I know the feeling."_

_"You do?" Molly leans into the cool fingers that are tucking stray hairs out of her face in a sweetly serious manner._

_"Oh, yes. In fact, can I meet him? I'd love to see what our friend looks like in the flesh." _

_His sing-song teasing makes her giggle. "He might be in tomorrow. I'll let you know when, if you're nice."_

_He kisses her nose. "Cross my heart, hope to die."_

_"Glee's on tonight," She remembers. "Do you want to stay and watch for a bit?"_

Jim Moriarty's Cheshire-cat grin fades to John's drawn face. Molly swallows her food and fiddles with her flatware, knowing her hesitation has bothered him.

"He's just..." Molly struggles to gain control of herself. "He was so..." She shook her head. "I don't know. I loved him."

John shook his head, not understanding.

"The first time I met him, I was supposed to tell him what it was like to work in a morgue. Tell him about autopsies and things like that. Then he started quizzing me like I was back in uni...I'd thought he'd looked a bit dashing in an eccentric way... but the way he grilled me like that..." Molly felt her eyes grow misty. She knew John's comforting pat on the back of her hand was because he expected her to be grieving over him. He expected this of mousy-Molly Hooper. But her emotions boiled over from the memory of the blank face sitting in to the space her apartment. The Sherlock now bruised and haggard from isolation. He'd revived her, back then. He'd brought her out of the monotonous gloom of depression, and into a world where things were exciting and details important. That man was slowly dying in her home, and she felt helpless.

"You really did love that bastard, didn't you?" John said, shaking his head in wonder.

Molly wiped her eyes, nodding slightly.

He shifted. "Look, Molly." He coughs, the uncomfortable and tired expression drawing the darkness of his skin tone back to beneath his eyes. "Sherlock appreciated you. I don't know about love, I don't know if he could understand that, but you meant something to him."

Molly had to force herself to breathe.

"He, mentioned you by name before he..." John poked at his food. "I'd never seen him apologize to someone before that Christmas, you know. Not in that way." He flushed a bit at his floundering. "There was only one woman before you that he cared about, besides Mrs. Hudson, of course." These memories were not pleasant. There was a grief in them that was private, a grief Molly knew he didn't share. He let her see his sadness. "But that Woman, he admired her, but also repulsed him... She wasn't what you were to him. You were... different. You were _important. _Not in a way that we'd think-" He swore, frustrated at himself. "The point is, he didn't care about a lot of things. He didn't even know he cared for the things he did. But you mattered to him. He was a twat about it, but I could tell."

"You could tell?" Molly didn't dare to believe him.

He sipped more wine. "He always seemed to know exactly what to say to reel your devotion back in. I don't know how he did it, but he had more skill with you than I ever had with any woman." He frowned at his food. "He liked to keep us all to himself. You, me, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. No one was ever good enough or interesting enough for us in his eyes."

Molly's heart beat fast. If she truly counted, if he liked her even half as much as he liked John, she meant more to him than she ever imagined. "Thank you, John."

Her words brought him out of the descent. As if waking up, he sighed. "I can't understand why he did it, Molly..."

The guilt could've killed her.

"The days before..." Molly tread the water carefully. "He looked sad. When you weren't around."

His expression was unreadable.

"John, I'm sorry..." She shouldn't have said anything.

"No, it's fine. It just..." His words were quiet. "I should've noticed."

They were quiet. He offered to buy tea at the Cafe they had visited the evening before. They weren't at the same table, now they were in a dark corner. The conversation was thin. Their bubble of friendship and forced healing had burst. John's limp on the way there had been worse than ever. They didn't talk about Sherlock the rest of the night save John's closing statement to their conversation previous.

_"The Holmes boys didn't see caring to be an advantage. I don't think Sherlock understood, though. Sometimes he got frustrated about not being in tune with the rest of the world, like he was embarrassed, or something... Mycroft told me once that Sherlock could've done anything he'd ever wanted, but instead of being a scientist or something, he decided to be a detective. I'm not sure what that said about Sherlock... But I can't stop thinking about it now that..." _

That had been the end of it.

* * *

Molly came home to Sherlock lying on her sofa, wrapped in a sheet, _her _sheet. He was watching the third season of Dr. Who and scowling at the television.

"Not a Martha fan, I take it?"

He turned off the T.V and studied her, that dead look in his eyes. "Well?"

Molly thought of all she'd learned that night, sifting through her tired brain. "What do you want to know first?"

Sherlock reached for his note book, scribbling away already. "Address?"

She told him.

"Work status?"

She told him.

"Future plans?"

Molly thought of John, his entire existence aching with memories of a man who he believed to be much more human than the robot in front of her. "Actually, I-I think I'm going to bed."

"Really, Molly, don't be so droll." He spat.

She set her purse down, kicked off her heels. He asked her more questions. The room around her seemed hazy. Memories of John, Sherlock, and Jim enveloped her like a fog. Her exhaustion with her own silence ready to break her.

"Sherlock, I'm tired. Mind if I drop off early tonight?"

"I don't want you to forget anything. Did he mention feeling like he'd been followed?" Sherlock got up to pace.

"No. I-I think you've been too hard on that leg. I should've had you rest it more."

"Trivial. Now, he said Mrs. Hudson hadn't left Baker Street to visit him. I should have you go check on her, just to be sure that-"

"Sherlock?"

"-she's still being watched. Now, we can't send you to Lestrade, which means we have to send John, so I'll need you to meet with him again." He'd ignored her.

Molly swallowed hard. "I can't manipulate him again."

He stilled.

"I-It's not right. He's still hurting, Sherlock. I went too far tonight." She felt the room tilting.

"You have too." He explained. "If you don't, who will? Molly, be reasonable, you've nothing more interesting to do, have you?"

She choked, staring at her feet. "Please, stop."

When she didn't get a response, and she could no longer handle the silence she wiped at her eyes and managed to say, "You said I counted, but I don't feel like I do."

"You do matter. You're very important-" His tone wasn't gruff, but it wasn't soft either.

"No, that's- that's not what I mean." She looked up, at the walls, the ceiling, avoiding his gaze; trying not to be a mouse. "I mean... I want to help. I'll always be here. But...I'm not a pawn. John isn't either." She stumbled ahead, where was she going with this? "Your friends aren't game pieces " She looked at his face, his expression so similar to the one he'd worn when he and Mycroft called her into the morgue Christmas eve almost a year ago. He had realized she was alone, but didn't say anything. "Are-are we?"

"Molly..." His brow furrowed. John was right, he didn't understand. He couldn't because he didn't care too.

"I'm sorry." She headed for her bedroom.

"I don't think you are." He countered behind her. "You've had a touching evening with John Watson. Whatever else he's told you has upset you. Made you decide I ought to be more forthcoming or gentle or some rot. You know that's not going to work, I'm not like other people. I can't be. I have too much at stake. Would you like me to go tell John how I think his moping is pointless because I'm actually alive? Or do you want me to tell you that your dress gives you a figure and your hair looks soft? Those sort of things are a weakness, Molly. And I nearly lost those I care for because of my weakness."

She couldn't move even to face him, she put a hand to her mouth, hoping he couldn't see her the tears that betrayed her.

"I told you that I trusted you, Molly." Sherlock's voice was strained now, distant and detached.

She turned to look at him. What a pair they made, she thought. Her disheveled and tear-stained face, him in his sheet with the expression of a man lost in the wilderness.

"No, you don't." She sniffed. "No, you, you don't trust anyone. Not in the way that counts."

His jaw slackened, then clenched tight.

Looking at her feet she let her words flow faster than her fear. "It's fine. That's- that's what you want. But I can't..." She felt the whisper of Jim's taunting kiss on her cheek, the squeeze of John's comforting hand on hers. "I can't play this game."

"My behavior disgusts you." He hadn't moved.

She didn't dare meet his eyes. "No, I-"

"I know you understand why I faked my death Molly. So what's happened_?" _He took a step towards her. "Something is haunting you. I see it in your face, your silly routines every morning. It's not _grief, _it's _guilt_. So you should understand that I'm doing this for their safety."

Molly composed herself, feeling ridiculous with her wet face and fancy dress. "Of course, I just... You say you care for John, Lestrade, but you've always treated me- them like, like they're nothing-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't try to understand me, Molly Hooper. That's what's bothering you. I'm not who you want me to be." His ghostly figure walked to her window and pressed his forehead to it, looking for all the world like a child.

"I don't care who you are," She couldn't move. The words to shape and strength of their own. "But none of that matters anyway. If you see so much in us, you shouldn't take advantage of us." She shifted her weight, feeling nervous.

"I took advantage of_ you_, Molly." His silhouette shifted. "And you've born me as no one else could've born me. I appreciate it."

Molly felt her skin tremble. "Th-thank you."

The peace between them settled. It was late, and the blue light of her apartment reminded her that morning was coming. She could get in a few hours of sleep before her next shift at work. Her bed had been disheveled. Obviously, Sherlock had struggled to get her sheet free, as well as smuggling a few pillows. She fell on the bed, not waiting to change or take off her make up.

Some time, early that morning before she had to get up, she felt the warmth of her sheet being draped over her. She hadn't heard Sherlock come in, but felt him lean across her bed and pull the duvet over her. He didn't say anything, though she was sure he knew he'd woken her. Perhaps she'd only dreamt it.

* * *

Songs to keep you company:

-The Scientist by Coldplay

-Born to Die by Lana Del Rey

-Homesick by Sleeping At Last


	6. I Will Try To Fix You (pt 1)

A/N: I have a love/hate relationship with Moffat & Gatiss. But I would never dream of claiming their masterpiece.

Because you've all been so splendid- here's a two part chapter this week! (Huzzah!)

Once I saw 10 pages rolling by in this, I figured I ought to cut it up a bit . Getting a tad carried away... But I couldn't help it. You'll see why :)

* * *

Rooms in Sherlock's Mind Palace were disappearing. He stood in front of yet another blank space in the wall. What had this room been? Was it important? Or had he deleted it and forgotten?

The familiar whispers of Moriarty coiled like snakes around his consciousness, slithering in the most secluded bowers of his mind. Sherlock stiffened, what was wrong with him? Swiftly, he walked to the second level- more rooms gone. It wasn't right, his eyes searched the hallway frantically, yet the only things out of place were the Whisperings.

You're ordinary  
_Ordinary_  
**_Ordinary_**

Sherlock's throat tightened, his pulse beating faster than normal. Ignoring the Whisperings, he turned on his heels and navigated the labyrinth, determined to ignore those floating memories. He clasped the opposite wrist behind his back, pausing to take a deep breath as he stared down another empty space where there oughtn't be. His next breath in shook, the serpents of Moriarty's words slithered down the hall.

_Fear_, he named the pounding in his veins. There was always an explanation- this was just nonsense. It was irrational. He'd been unable to control his fear before, but he'd been drugged then, in Baskerville. He turned to face the misty snakes, carrying with them the memories he'd grown to despise down to the very pit of his stomach.

"If I'm so ordinary, why are You still taunting me?" Even though he was the only one to know of this conversation with the memory of a dead man, he became angry with his own fear. The physical symptoms were attacking him, it filled him with bile.

The mist vined it's way into a Westwood suit and the lean form of Jim Moriarty.  
"Hi!" It was a very typical Moriarty in front of him, not the strained one he'd known at the end. "Something bothering you, Sherlock?"

He growled. "Leave me alone."

Moriarty shook his head, mist falling off his crown, foaming like waves on a beach at his feet as he moved forward. "Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock. Feeling guilty?"

Sherlock glared at his imagined enemy, trying to separate him.

Moriarty tsk-ed, nearly pressed up against Sherlock, gazing into his face. "What a petulant _child_ you're being. You're all_ tense_. You should be happy- enjoying your victory."

This was a product of his subconscious- his brain was trying to send a message. "I am pleased with my victory."

"No, no you're_ not,_ Sherlock." The mist creature circled him. "And that's what's so disappointing. It's so normal of you." Moriarty stepped through him. "You see, you've nothing else to live for. No career. No case. No John."

Sherlock turned watching the mist split itself, turning into snakes and climbing up the walls, surrounding him, suffocating him. "You should have killed yourself."

* * *

Sherlock sat up breathing heavily. A dusty, glaring light filtered through Molly's two narrow windows. He fell back on the sofa, the adrenaline in his veins making him feel both light headed and heavy at the same time. He groaned and pulled off his shirt, mussed with his hair. He needed a shower.

Molly's bathroom mirror taunted him with a reflection. The person before him wore cheap trousers- too short for him. The flush in his face was frustrating. _Sherlock Holmes did not have nightmares_. But no, it wasn't that. He was beginning to forget things. _Why?_ The heavy eyes and cracked lips told him he wasn't recovering well- psychologically. He caught water in his hands and cupped it to his lips. He was caged in here- a dying specimen in the universe's lab...

No longer.

He needed some air.

/

Molly looked up from her work, pulling the earbuds out of her ear when Greg Lestrade and Sgt. Donovan stalked into the morgue.

"Hello, Molly." Greg tried to sound cheery. "Can we take a look at a body?"

Molly unzipped the bag, revealing a cold figure. She gave the report and listened to them argue over the case they were on. Greg was getting nearer and nearer to tossing the sergeant out, Molly could tell, but instead he resigned himself. Sgt. Donovan ended up leaving the room to make a call. As Greg watched her go he muttered, "I am one-hundred percent done, Molly." Molly didn't doubt him.

"Difficult case?" She looked up from her work, trying to sound as if she hadn't been listening to the awkward argument.

He nodded. "Somedays I wish these things would work themselves out for once." Greg shook his head. "How've you been?"  
A dozen responses came to her mind,

_"Awful- I spend the entire day two feet away from the man I love and he still doesn't care that I exist"_  
_"Terrible, I've got the biggest arse of a flatmate"_  
_"Badly, because I've got to lie to you about how I really feel"_

Instead she just said,  
"Fine. You?"

Greg looked over his shoulder, then leaned on the lab table close to where she was working. "Tired."

Molly twisted her mouth into something between a frown and a smile, tucking it into the corner of her lips. "I'm sorry. Everything... Everything good at home?"

He shook his head. "Now that my wife's moved out for good I keep hearing his voice in my head all the time."

Molly remembered seeing the look on his face when he'd seen Sherlock's body. Like he'd been punched in the stomach. That same ashen look overcame him. In the lines of his face were the same traces of guilt she felt inside herself. "Sometimes I wonder if..." He shook his head. "Oh, Molly. Molly Hooper."

She smiled brightly, holding her hands up in the air. "Guilty as charged." The laugh and flicker of a smile in his eyes encouraged her. "Is there anything I can do?"

Greg looked her over. "How about dinner?"

Molly felt her stomach swoop. "D-Dinner?"

He grinned. "Yeah. You've heard of it? Most people eat their meals with other living beings, shockingly enough."

Her giggle relieved the frantic feelings scrambling inside of her. Dinner? With Detective Inspector Lestrade? "Oh, I don't know..."

"Dr. Hooper," His posture suddenly overwhelming her as he gently pushed aside her lab work. "We all deserve a little happiness."

"You've been smoking again," Was all she could stammer.

The glow in his face snuffed out as suddenly as it'd come. "The smell that bad?"

She felt ridiculously embarrassed. "No, no, I just- I saw your patches when you were..."

"Now I see why Sherlock liked to work with you. Quite the eye for detail." He confirmed her suspicions by rolling up his sleeve again.

The mention of the late Consulting Detective put a damper on their conversation. "Um," Molly struggled to form her thoughts coherently. "Maybe-maybe it isn't the best idea... Your wife-"

The sadness in Greg's face confirmed her doubts. "Oh, Molly, She's gone for good. Don't worry about that."

She couldn't help but doubt the on-again-off-again nature of the Lestrades' marriage. Luckily she didn't have to say anything, for Sergeant Donovan had come strutting back from her phone call. They argued a bit more, till finally she'd pulled him off somewhere else.

Molly tried to reassemble her thoughts. The uncharacteristic confessions of John Watson, and now the flirtation of D.I Lestrade had effectively frayed the edges of the ribbon tying her to Sherlock Holmes' little finger. Still, he had behaved strangely that one night a week or so ago... She yawned. It was definitely time to go home.

* * *

The lights were off. Molly's panic escalated as she scanned her small flat. No note. Nothing. Horrific fears strangled her. Had one of the assassins found him? Or the police? She looked for signs of a struggle, anything. Grabbing her coat, she flung the door open and ran straight into someone. Startled, she shrieked and tried to pull away.

_"Molly_" His voice commanded her._ Sherlock'_s voice.

She let go a burst of air, trying not to burst into tears. It hadn't truly been that terrifying, she knew, and Sherlock certainly saw straight through her little panic attack.

"You alright dear?" Her neighbor (well in his 70's) stuck his balding head out.

"Quite!" Molly said, wide eyed.

"This man giving you trouble?"

She froze, however, Sherlock turned, and grinned. "Oh, no, sir. She didn't notice me when she opened the door," He tweaked her nose. "Isn't that right, dear?"

"Y-yes. Right." Molly felt as if she could pass out.

"I do hope our noise doesn't bother you," Sherlock continued to grin goonishily. "She's a bit loud, this one."

"No, no," The old man chuckled. "Do what you can while you're young, I say!"

Molly needed to sit down. And perhaps a glass of wine.

"Exactly!" Sherlock ushered Molly inside, and gave a final wave to her neighbor. After shutting the door, he took off his scarf and coat, then pulled out two handkerchiefs full of rubbish from his pockets, and emptied them into piles on her kitchen counter.

_"Sherlock."_ Molly gaped, after catching her breath.

He didn't answer.

_"Sherlock."_ The catch in her throat must've caught his attention, because he looked up at her with those all seeing eyes, as if he'd been listening to her all along. "Where were you?"

"Out. For a walk." He turned towards the bathroom.

"Weren't you worried people would see you?" She felt herself nearing hysterics.

"No. People only see what they expect to see." He returned to his work, attacking it with her good tweezers.

"W-What?" Molly gaped. "Th-that's ridiculous. Of course people will notice you. You're famous."

"I'm dead." He punctuated each word carefully.

Molly sat down. There was no use arguing with him. "What were you doing?"

"I'm going to conduct an experiment on rodent feces." His face was as straight and as serious as if he'd just announced he was going to analyze blood samples off a murder case.

She reached for the wine bottle, trying to stifle her laughter. "I hope you were careful."

Sherlock remained focused on his experiment. "Yes."

He was listening to her at all. She took a sip of wine. "Greg Lestrade asked me on a date."

"And?"

He hadn't even looked up from his work. Still, Molly gaped. "Well, I, uh..." She remembered John's statements to her about him being jealous. A giddy and girlish rush made her heart skip a bit, foolishly. "We didn't get the chance to schedule anything."

"Don't." Sherlock started a new pile on her clean counter.

Though Molly's heart still pulsed heavily behind her ribcage, her more sensible side bristled. "Don't what?"

"Go to dinner with him," He waved a hand dismissively. "He'll be back with his wife in a month. Less than that if you don't distract him."

"She's moved out completely." Molly echoed Greg's hollow case.

"You don't think so either." He glanced up at her. "You won't do it anyway."

She wasn't sure whether she was more bothered by his behavior or his attack on Greg. "Maybe I will."

They stared at each other stubbornly. Sherlock took her in as he enunciated slowly, as if trying to guess the right combination. "Why would you?"

"He's nice to me." Molly's challenge faltered.

"He thinks you're attractive." Sherlock shifted in his seat rather annoyed.

Molly felt a fire in the sole of her feet. "Really?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "Always. Now, do you have any petri dishes?"

"Greg Lestrade thinks I'm_ attractive?_" Molly smiled to herself. "_Really?"_

"Yes, I already said he did-godsakes- _why_ are you so surprised?" His exasperation was almost comical.

Molly shrugged and stumbled over her words. "I-I don't know... I guess, I didn't think people thought of me that way."

Sherlock huffed and tossed aside the pink tweezers._ "Molly."_

She flushed. "Sorry. No, I don't have any here."  
He sulked over to the sofa, throwing himself on it like a child.

Molly sipped more of her wine. "He really fancies me, you think? He likes the way I look?"

Sherlock groaned. "Lord, this is tedious. Ever since that Christmas Party. That horrid dress you wore..."

Molly frowned. "What was wrong with my dress?"

"You wore a_ gift wrapping bow in your hair._" He stated, as if it explained it all.

"I thought it was cute. A little festive." She remembered how long it had taken her to get it to lay correctly in her hair.

"_Cute._" He scoffed, rolling on his side as if the conversation was causing him actual pain. "Why is this so important to you?"

"It's not, I just, I don't know. I'm surprised." Molly berated herself for being ridiculous.

"Why?" His head inclined towards her a little more, those eyes trying to calculate her.

Molly's breath hitched a little. "I just don't... well... You know what I mean, you always have something to say about the way I do my self up."

He was confused, "You shouldn't _do yourself up_. Why do you try so hard when you don't need too?"

He didn't mean it as a compliment, she felt certain. Molly finished struggled to make any coherent thought all the same.

"Don't go to dinner with Lestrade."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "Wait, didn't- didn't you want me to ask about him?"

"I thought you weren't_ playing the game_." Sherlock said pointedly. "Lestrade is cynical and carries an addictive personality. Aside from his inability to function in a normal relationship, _you_ have never had any good luck in one yourself. I'd advise you both keep your curiosity in check."

Molly felt her stomach drop. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_," He grumbled. "That any woman with a string of sad attempts and as important as you should guard herself carefully."

Molly felt a prick in her lungs. Her pain caught hold of her anxiety and she lashed out, "I forgot you were an expert on dating."

He glanced at her, palms pressed together under his chin. "I'd hardly call myself that. You'd do best to heed evidence, however-"

Blinded by weeks of a difficult-presumed-dead sociopath, she hurled her wine glass across the room- it hit the wall by her dining area, causing both of them to stare at it as if it had suddenly become a very small elephant in an even smaller room.


	7. I Will Try To Fix You (pt 2)

A/N: I still have no claim on BBC's Sherlock. Which is probably a good thing.

As promised, part 2 :) Rate and Review as always :)

* * *

Sherlock rapped his knuckles on the bathroom door. "Molly?"

No answer.

He sighed. Obviously, he'd done something to upset her. "Are you alright?"

A sniff told him she was not, though she told him to stop worrying.

"_Molly,"_ He pressed his forehead to the door. She was crying._ Wonderful._ "I wasn't trying to insult you."

"No," She blew her nose loudly. "I know you weren't. You don't ever mean too-"

"Can't you see I was trying to help you?" Attempting to reason with a door was foolish. "Molly, let me in."

"No."

The pout in her voice was interesting. "If you want to date Greg Lestrade, my opinion shouldn't matter."

Another little sniff. "It does, though."

He remembered Molly's frustration with him the night Moriarty had introduced himself as Jim.

_"Gay."_

_Wasn't it kinder to save her time?_

John's disapproval carried over the years and memories towards him. He knocked on the door again.

After a pause, she opened the door. Red eyed and stiff posture: she was still angry with him.

"I'm sorry." He said, putting on a sincere tone.

"No you're not," She gave him a quick glare, but blushed. "You don't even understand why I'm angry."

"I insulted you." He shrugged. "I'm sorry. I was trying to be a good friend."

"No," Molly sighed, her exhaustion showing through as she leaned her head on the door. "No, being a good friend is lying to them when they want to be lied too. Or pretending to approve of their date, or knowing when not to talk about things that they don't want to talk about. That's being a good friend."

Sherlock frowned. "I was under the impression that loyalty and protection were the signs of true friendship."

"Well, that's not what people do." She looked up to him. It had been months since they'd had a normal conversation like this. This is how it had used to be. After Christmas things had been awkward again, and try as she might, she was worried that the progress she'd made since the Moriarty incident had been for naught. Yet here he was, hiding in her home, and trying to understand everything-all of it- like he used to.

"It's not?" His eyes darted over her.

"No." Molly gave a sad smile. "That is, the stuff you said is true, too. It's pretty important. I guess, more than the stuff I was saying-"

"Molly?"

"Yes?" Her blood turned hot, and a wave of flame licked the pit of her stomach when she saw the focus he had suddenly trained on her.

"What did Moriarty do to you?"

He studied her reaction. The widening of her eyes. The struggling to maintain even breathing. "Did he hurt you?"

She avoided his gaze,"No." Her usual cheery tone disappeared.

He stepped back. Unsure of why her despair unsettled him. Something in his chest burned. It made him furious. The way her hands would shake sometimes, her intensified flighty-ness. He reached out a hand, she flinched. Pausing, he read the pleas and fear in her eyes that were still red rimmed with crying. "You're brave, Molly Hooper." He said, barely grazing her cheek bones as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. When he looked back at her, she was staring at him with such depth and caring that he felt drawn in and also pushed out.

_Sentiment._

_Caring._

He stepped away from her, conjuring the anger he still held against Moriarty, whose memory was tainting everything in his living life. "Tell me what happened."

Molly blushed deeply. "It's fine. He's gone now."

He frowns and paces slowly. "Of course. But the ghosts, memories, they can wound as well." He notices her shiver, and sits her down at the table. "Should I discover what happened or let you tell me?"

Molly swallowed. The loneliness, the stuff that ate away at her longer days and nights, was familiar in his eyes. For all his protestations, all his attempting to shut his emotions off, he missed them. John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg. They were important. He needed them, they had always been more real than he had felt. Than he had tried to be. In a way she envied his success at shutting out the emotions attached with caring. "We dated."

"You and the character he played, yes, I know." He was unfazed.

"He," She swallowed looking at her hands. "That night, when, he kidnapped John. He'd been with me first."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm sure."

"No," Molly breathed in. "He'd _been with me._"

"Did he hurt you?" Sherlock had frozen. "Abuse you?"

Molly shrugged, biting her lip.

"Molly," Sherlock leaned in, his voice low. "Did he hurt you?"

He didn't have to hear her answer because he saw it in her eyes. Her embarrassment, the memory of guilt and heartache she carried. Several images came to his mind. The way she'd behaved when they'd recounted the details of what her ex-lover had done. He and John had gone out of their way to be kind to her, and in time Molly Hooper had only flourished under their attention. But there was something he'd missed, once again.

He imagined her tied to a bed, beaten up enough to satisfy the manic nature of the Consulting Criminal, but not enough to warn her that the fun and games had only begun. He'd torment her with every moment they'd spent together. It would leave a lasting bruise that she'd carefully hide from those she worked with every day, and succeed.

Or perhaps his acting had been strong enough to stir her heart. Making her vulnerable mind believe he could love her. Scattering rose petals on her bed, whispering promises in her ears that he never intended to keep. Breaking her heart and will with lies that popped up every time she'd had a date.

Her soft brown eyes implored with him. Even her lips, usually glossed and colored but now plain and delicate, seemed to beg him not to ask her. The flame in his chest flickered, a new wave of gratitude causing him to care about her. It was the same fixating feeling he'd felt for John and Mrs. Hudson. A caring so meaningful to him that he had to put aside the overwhelming emotions of it aside in order to devote himself completely to their protection. "You don't have to worry anymore. You're safe now. I'll take care of it." Molly's surprised expression motivated him further. "Tea?"

"I'm fine." She managed to say past her stutter.

Sherlock put the kettle on. Then said, "The shattered glass says otherwise."

Molly's laugh lightened the mood for both of them. "I suppose I can be a bit neurotic sometimes."

Sherlock pulled out her tea cups. "You've had prolonged exposure to a high-functioning sociopath, Molly. If you weren't exhibiting signs of a breakdown I'd be more concerned."

Her laugh rang again, pleasing him.

They left the shattered wine glass that night, though in the morning Molly picked it up before work. The familiarity of it somehow calmed him. The whispers in the shadows of his Mind Palace that night weren't quite as threatening. The disappearing rooms didn't bother him. If they weren't there, perhaps they weren't important. He rested that night, comfortably uncomfortable on Molly's sofa. And when her bedroom light clicked on early the next morning, the gentle sounds of her movement lulled him back to sleep.

When he awoke, sometime around noon, he found a note with a promise to bring home the lab equipment he'd asked for.

* * *

Some songs to keep you company:

-Fix You, by Coldplay

-Demons, by Imagine Dragons

-Saturated, by Five Mile Town


	8. Observations

The Apology: *crying* I've missed you all and I feel terrible! I am so sorry it's taken me so long to update! I promise you I am not giving up on this, I have a story to tell. And I hope to finish it by the end of Summer break 3 Forgive me my darling readers- and don't give up on me quite yet!

The Excuses: ugggggggggggg Graduation. Finals. Family. Senior Recital. Finding a job. The list goes on. ALSO. I've rewritten this chapter maybe... four times now? This would be the fifth. As a result, I just pummeled through till it felt good to end. So let's all decide now to blame my lack of editing to the lateness of the hour and the fact that I wanted to share it with you all as soon as possible :)

_Penance_: I probably am going to regret this... c'est la vie. SO. You all _may _have noticed that- while this is definitely declared as a romance and has a plot- that it's not easy to make Sherlolly float. I'd love to experiment with their romantic dynamic more... thus... I've decided to ask for prompts. What's your Sherlolly fantasy? Fancy a candle lit bubble bath? Building snowmen and snuggling by the fire? Sloppy drunken kisses? (please, for the love of Moffat, be nicer to me than that). Send me your fluffy desires in a PM or a review if you're bold. Seriously, anything you'd like to see happen to *this* particular Sherlolly story line, send it to me. Those of you who don't find their dreams fulfilled in this fic will find it in a one-shot one day. 3 And no worries- I still have a rigid plot and story line I'm following... however, it's just so delightful to experiment with playing cupid.

**A/N:**

The next chapter may be a bit Mature (Molly/Moriarty memories). I might just add that scene as a one-shot, and you can all view at your discretion- or I'd be open to considering upping the rating on this. Your choice, lovelies.

AS always- I am a poor fan-girl and don't own any bit of Sherlock or the BBC... :'(

* * *

Molly's flat was slowly beginning to resemble his Mind Palace. It was dark and completely blank. Not a detail seemed interesting. The hallways for his memories were growing dim, and not even his few escapes into the outside world could revive the sickening sluggishness that had overcome his body. Slow. Monotonous.

It was worse than death.

He blinked. The clock's hands had moved significantly since he'd returned from the rainy streets of London. The clothes he was wearing as disguise had dried off a bit. The musty, humid smell in the air made his fingers and lips crave a cigarette.

Moriarty seemed to be slipping from the land of the dead. And the maddening part of it was that the world at large had carried on. Didn't they care there was an entire crime Network floundering beneath their noses? Didn't anyone see the assassins carefully hidden among them?

No. They were all stupid. Every single one of them.

He snatched the angular, dark glasses off his face and tossed them on the table. Unzipped the navy hoodie and kicked it away. The dark jeans and loafers Molly had bought for him matched the rest of his out fit in the sense that they were trendy and loose fitting. The comfort wasn't terrible, but it was annoyingly distracting. He ruffled up his hair and let his body fall forward. The ground was cool and held a dry, booky smell.

_"Oh, Sherlock. Where are you now?"_

He closed his eyes and numbed himself to the ever haunting part of his subconscious that had manifested itself as Moriarty in his Mind.

The figure shoved his hands in his pockets. _"Things in Hooperville are so boring aren't they? And it's just driving you mad you can't figure out a way to stop it, isn't it?"_

Sherlock was wrapped in his familiar coat, he tightened his scarf while joining Moriarty on a stroll down the eroding hallways.

_"You know, dear, you really do."_ Moriarty snickered, "_This gloom that's infecting you. It's preying on your senses. And it's not just you, Sherlock. Our friend Molly's caught the bug too!"_

Sherlock stiffened. He knew it, none of it, was real. It was just a sort of dream. But all the same, he cringed at the thought of Moriarty figuring it out. "Molly struggles with low-level anxiety attacks. It triggers her Asthma, which in turn triggers mild insomnia."

Moriarty stopped and shook his head. "_We both know you're being lazy. If Molly's attacks are getting bad, don't you wonder what it is that keeps her up in the night? What triggers these dreams? Memories? New worries? Honestly,"_ The villain rolled his eyes and strutted into the dark. "_Aren't you even a teensy bit curious about how far I got?"_

Molly gasped at the sight of Sherlock's body on the floor. She stood frozen in terror till he heaved himself up and examined her presence.

"You're late."

Molly sighed wearily. Though his handsome looks (and his adorable disguise certainly added a new dynamic to them) could charm her as easily as his voice could undo her, she was starting to see what a child he was. "Sorry. I saw John on the way home."

Sherlock's attention seemed duly peaked. "Yes?"

Molly kicked off her shoes and began pulling her dinner together. Sherlock followed and settled at his "lab" counter while she told him how John had got some money from the bank. "He seemed completely different from when I last saw him. The limping worse. He's completely stony, but he apologized for being so emotional that night..." Molly knew she was rambling and shook her head. "When are you going to tell him?" She asked, pulling down a box of instant pasta and reaching for the pot.

Sherlock didn't answer, seemingly engrossed in his observations on whatever was festering in the petri dishes. When Molly reached for the fridge, however he said, "When I start cracking Moriarty's Network."

She shifted her weight to the other foot. "What?"

"The Crime Network. Assassins and dangerous criminals. They all cover and connect each other like a spider's web, Moriarty was the center; but obviously somebody's still watching it because the assassins are still at large- or so it seems." Not a word of this blurted speech was explained to her with the privilege of his attention.

It seemed as if he'd known this for sometime, but now- almost five months of his living in her flat, and-

"Do I want to look in the fridge?" She asked, seeing through his distraction.

"Probably not." He enunciated clearly and sarcastically.

Molly spun back to her sink, fumbling with her dishes and making do; trying not to imagine what sort of experiment was being conducted in her fridge and how he'd acquired the test subject. "Out of curiosity, just wondering, when do I get free range of my kitchen again?"

Sherlock looked up. "You're upset."

"A bit!" Molly let the steam of her exasperation whistle much more emphatically than she'd meant.

"And being glib." He arched an eyebrow.

"Glib?" Molly sputtered, a migraine slowly tightening all the muscles in her neck and shoulders. "What do you mean by that?"

Before he could respond her phone rang. Molly staggered to her purse and answered it barely in time. It was her sister-in-law. The woman, while sweet, went on and on about how her brother and her nephews missed her, how on earth was she? Did she know that Detective that died awhile back, she couldn't remember. Molly was pleased to hear her voice however. She felt the restlessness that had been eating away at her tired body loosen. Someone out in the world had thought of her and wanted to ask her how she'd been. The conversation ended, however, with a twist. Could she babysit the boys when for an afternoon when she and Aaron came up to visit her mother? Molly wondered how her nephews felt about having only one aunt (on their father's side) and one grandmother (on their mother's side). They had a small family and it had been at least since last Summer when she'd seen them. She glanced over her shoulder at the detective positively taking over her flat and realized that he didn't truly have any say in the matter. If he put up too much of a fuss, she could suggest he hide in the closet till the boys went home. So it was decided.

Tired, she decided not to bring it up with him, just yet. She had the weekend off and so she'd tell him after she'd rested a bit. She returned to cooking her dinner and brewing some tea. She felt her body giving out on her. Long days and late nights didn't' suit her weak immune system. She was sure she'd catch a cold, and then she was in for it. The memory of Moriarty (she'd taken to calling him that, as Sherlock referred to him as such) had so ensnared her that now she couldn't discern which was the memory and which was simply a nightmare. She'd wake up breathing rapidly, sometimes all she'd need was to use her inhaler or take some water- but if her anxiety was too far gone she'd feel the room close in and she'd descend into a hopeless loneliness that seemed like the world on her shoulders was crushing through and shattering her ribcage...

Molly looked down at her hands. Nicked with years of clumsiness in school, but also her scars of years when she couldn't understand why she overreacted the way she did. She could almost see the rawness her knuckles once held from her scratching and picking.

Sherlock shouted in frustration and snapped a slide in half, unplugging Molly's old microscope and kicking off his shoes. "Stupid! This place is a tomb!" She watched him curse and mutter to himself before collapsing into a corpse like state on the floor. "I need a cigarette."

She sighed. This again. "It's not good for you, I hate the smell anyway."

"You do?" He quirked an eyebrow. "Interesting."

Molly blushed. "W-Why is that interesting?"

"I used to smoke all the time when we first met." He sat up and searched the room with his eyes. "Didn't bother you then."

"It did, actually." Molly lifted her chin and left for the sitting room. She sprawled out on her couch unlike she'd done in ages. It smelled faintly of the shampoo she'd gotten for Sherlock, it was becoming a familiar smell, though it still surprised her.

"Do you have ammonia?" Sherlock asked, suddenly rooting through her cupboards next to her.

She didn't. But he walked behind her and started to look in the cupboards near the fridge. "Nail polish remover?"

"That would be in the bathroom if I have any left." Molly couldn't remember the last time she'd done her nails...

He came from the bathroom and shook the bottle with a glint in his eye, and opened her fridge, pouring the entire contents in before shutting the door. Molly shuddered.

"My nephews will be coming by sometime this next week." She found herself saying.

His eyes narrowed. "Ah, yes, and where shall I go? Just pop on over to Mrs. Hudson's shall I?"

Molly bit her lip, seeing him tower over her menacingly. "N-no, You can just sit in my room or something while they're here."

"And do what exactly?" Though his diction was precise, his behavior was unbelievably childish.

"Read?" She suggested lamely.

Sherlock scoffed. "Yes, brilliant, Molly. How very clever of you."

Molly felt herself bristle. She was a professional pathologist hired at st. Barts! She not only saved his life but had spent years in unrequited love, and allowed the man to live with her for 5 months. It was a sudden epiphany for her in that moment that she really, truly, didn't have to take it. Or at least, she didn't have to let him walk over her quite so easily.

"You're acting like I'm putting you out of the way, but really; sh-shouldn't you just be happy to be alive?" Molly willed herself to stop fidgeting and remembered the night, over a month ago now, that she'd thrown the wine glass in exasperation. It was lucky she didn't have anything to throw at him now. She sat up slowly and looked to her bedroom door, where she felt like running into and slamming the door. "Or maybe, at least, you could show a bit more courtesy to me. I-I don't think I can take any more of," she waved a hand towards him, "this."

"You just gestured to my whole person." He clipped.

"Yes," Molly shifted her weight, and finally set her jaw to him. "Yes, I did."

When Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, he found that instead of his senses pouncing on her, loosening his tongue to observations and deductions that would prove himself- he found a blank wall. It was as if he'd walked into a cloud, and suddenly all he could focus on were those lips of hers. The whiteness revealed nothing to him at first, but when he berated himself as she proudly turned away, his focus went straight to her waist, and up, up, up...

Then down...

A blood-rush he couldn't quite define kept him quiet, tripping over his own hazy thoughts.

She turned back, relenting a little. "Maybe," She looked down, her eyelashes setting pleasantly. "Maybe you could go out that afternoon or something."

He shook his head, amazed at the sudden raw Molly that had reared its head for the briefest of moments. She'd challenged him. "Uh, yes. I might. Do that."

She bit her lip and scrunched her nose, causing the corners of her mouth to pucker. This face fascinated him, and when she nodded he wanted to freeze her and examine it further. The darkness that had clogged his mind was drifting away, and Molly stood before him in high-definition. He watched her feminine frame return to her dinner in the kitchen. Sherlock plugged the microscope back in and tried to focus on his experiment.

She tucked the fraying, loose hairs neatly in place- subconsciously. She was thinking about something intensely, he saw, as she ate absent mindedly. Was it about work? Her family? He tried to read her, only to find that Molly had bits of secrets tucked away about her. Between her jaw and neck there was a slenderness. The corners of her eyes and lips held smiles or something that he wanted to put under the microscope. What was it? What was this quality that Molly had clinging to every delicate and simple feature of her body? The pure boredom, he decided, was making her intriguing.

He watched her move about the flat and ready herself for sleep. Generally, Sherlock was indifferent towards women. Save, of course, The Woman. But Irene, more than an anything, had disappointed him. She had somehow earned his respect, and wormed a place in his Mind Palace that to this day confused him.

Her tactics, after saving him, had been all show. He didn't doubt her sincerity. In fact, there was a new understanding of the world after she'd thanked him for saving her. But he felt nothing but emptiness when she looked up at him from the floor with wide eyes. Was that it? Distractions. People could be so funny.

He knew it hadn't been real. Not official. Not enough to get Mycroft off his back. And he was fine with it. In the end, she was just The Woman. He'd fixed her and the Scandal In Belgravia was closed.

He felt a sloshing in his stomach when he saw her shadow striping itself of her clothes against the wall he could see of her bedroom. Decorum told him to look away. Unsure of himself and a little irritated, he returned to the creatures under the microscope.

The truth was, The Woman was nothing like Molly. The Woman was a masterful spider, entangling webs and executing with seductive ease. Molly's nature was oxymoronic. At times intelligent and categorical, others foolish and silly. There was something about her that was entirely...feminine. Not in a way that made him roll his eyes or shout (as his clients often would; and come to think of it, Molly's clothes were particularly annoying) but in a way that fascinated him. Her every detail was not only telling but elegant. She was female in the sense that he was male.

X and Y, a predictable human chemical reaction.

* * *

Songs to keep you company:

-X&Y, by Coldplay

-Masochist, by Ingrid Michaelson

-Fall, Ed Sheeran


	9. Let Your Heart Be Light

"Get dressed you merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay! For it is Christmas Christmas Christmas Christmas Christmas day! It's Christmas Christmas Christmas Christmas Christmas Christmas day! It is Chri-i-i-i-i-istmas day, Christ-a-mas day, It is Chri-i-i-i-i-i-istmas daaaaaaay!" (Cabin Pressure reference 3)

I got reaaaalllly excited while doing the pre-work for this chapter- because guess what? IT'S CHRISTMAS! (okay, well, it's nearly July here; but in the world of EIA, the timing of this is about the beginning of December... meeeeeeeeeeeeeep)

Needless to say, I felt very enthusiastic. Haha. Anywho. There's a bit before the beginning of this Chap. that I've added as a M-rated One Shot. Nothing to get excited about, I'm just a bit cautious. This isn't Sherlolly, either...Every Fairytale needs a good, old-fashioned villain... :-/ Poor Molly...

I own nothing but my love of Christmas! God bless us, everyone!

* * *

Molly's head ached and her throat had gone dry.

Relax, relax, relax. She told herself.

In the dark she tried to keep from panicking while rummaging for her inhaler- her airways already closing in reaction to the anxiety attack. "It's not behind you," she muttered, detangling herself from the sheets. "Just a dream, not real."

The lamp wouldn't come on. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably, she wasn't able to catch a breath. She knew she had to calm down; but he was inside her, he was smothering her, he grinning from ear to ear, rolling his eyes.

"Molly?"

She jumped at Sherlock's appearance. Embarrassed, she let out a tiny cry- and felt herself hyperventilating...

It was a spiral.

She felt her mind grow dark and sharp attacking thoughts hit her like knives.

You're infected with him, Molly. You'll never forget it. Never forget his cold body, his slimy words, how he groomed you into feeling. And you'll hate yourself for it. Forever. Forever.

His voice in her ears, her mind. Jim.

The inhaler was pressed in her hands, and soon after a glass of cold water. Molly took both, and cried out of relief. The ground became solid beneath her, the air became cold in a soothing way. After awhile, she felt Sherlock watching her.

Her voice cracked, "Thank you."

He said nothing.

It was awkward, but her head was too clouded to care as he helped her back in bed. Her body was exhausted and aching.

"Are you hurt?" Sherlock asked, his voice ten times deeper in the blackness.

"I think I hit myself on the desk." Her own voice was small. Mouse-like.

Sherlock's footsteps paced around the bed. "You fell down."

She breathed deeply, listening to the sounds of their fragile bodies working the way they were desgined once more. His mind churning and his body quivering with anticipation like a stick of dynamite, while hers waited and braced itself to feel the impact deeply. As he paced back and forth, Molly became aware of her bare legs and drab night-shirt. She'd been sweating too. It couldn't be helped. She was just thankful he'd been there to save her.

"Thank you," She said, almost whispering. "I d-don't think..."

He stopped. "No. Lie down. You're going to be getting a headache soon."

It was true, she already felt it as the albuterol and adrenaline gently rattled her body. "Is the power out?"

"Obviously." He grunted.

Molly shifted and pulled the covers around her, lying down obediently.

His shadow loomed over her. "Go to sleep. Your nephews are coming in the morning."

The door shut behind him with a final sound. Molly shook violently. Not from the anxiety attack but from him. It was happening again. Her pulse beating wildly out of control in his presence. The inexplicable love she had for him swelled beneath the dark dreams that haunted her. She was different. She had grown. She wouldn't let herself loose control. He could never feel the same way. Perhaps loving was at it's most strongest-it's most wonderful- when it wasn't returned.

* * *

Sherlock heard the nephews beyond Molly's door. The pictures of them in her room told him they were most likely in first and fifth grade, and the tenor of children's enthusiasm confirmed this when they greeted their aunt. A woman's voice, strong and cool told him this woman must be the opposite of Molly's nature; yet surprisingly, her own voice responded to it in a spirited way. This surprised him. The thought of it, looking at the smiling woman in the pictures with her arms thrown around friends and her small family. She had a large smile in some of them. The more recent ones held an unsure one, it tucked itself away shyly.

Sherlock felt an inexplicable desire to make the grinning, laughing, spirited Molly appear once more. He wanted to release that woman unto the world, to set her free. It was what she deserved more than anything. But he also wanted to tangle himself in it, to somehow share some of that vivacity.

The thought appalled him, and he slunk back to the mauve colored comforter. Her bed was such a pleasant change, that he easily fell asleep and didn't wake until an hour or so later when Molly forcefully shut the door behind her and locked it.

"Sorry!" She chirped. "Getting the boys' Christmas presents."

He didn't answer, and instead rolled himself up in her blanket, curling into a ball. His mind snapped with electricity, illuminating all of his senses and letting a gust of wind blow the cobwebs away in his Mind Palace. Lavender. Sandalwood. Linen. A dash of some tangy chemical smell she must have a hard time scrubbing from her skin.

"Sherlock?" Molly's whisper became urgent and the white noise in his mind cleared. "The boys will be gone soon, alright? I'm sorry about all this."

He slothfully reared his head. "Do shuttup, Molly. I don't care."

She blushed and departed quickly.

_"Sherlock!" The Moriarty's taunt flooded his mind. "You're ordinary! This is sooooo typical and boring of you."_

Sherlock didn't respond to the ghost. Instead, he turned a corner and opened the room to a familiar lab at Barts, infusing the rose-like smell to the areas where she usually worked.

* * *

Molly bid her family farewell, hugging the boys fiercely and helping to button and zip their puffy winter coats.

"Mum!" Asked Hal. "Can Aunt Molly come up for Christmas?"

Her sister-in law sent a emphatic glance at Molly. "Why don't you ask her?"

Cole grinned and hugged her, clutching his new toy stethoscope in a tightly mittened hand. "Pleaaath Aunt Mol?"

Henry, her brother, rolled his eyes at his youngest and scooped him up. "Can't you call in sick or something?"

Susan nodded in agreement. "Please? We'd love it so much."

Molly thought of tossing paperwork into the air and running from the morgue, not stopping till she was in the cozy festive home and singing carols about figgy pudding. She merely said yes, but the lithe, dark figure currently sleeping in her bed stopped her. Somehow, even though he knew he wasn't very into the Christmas spirit, she felt like he needed her. It was silly, and her own imagination (she felt sure) that he'd been acting strangely the last week or so. One minute depressed and lazy, the next boyish and giving mischievous, pixie-like expressions.

"I really can't," She kissed them all and ushered them out the door. "I'll send my love and give you all a call. A pathologist's work is never finished!" She chuckled, waving them down the hall.

Susan chuckled, and Henry shook his head. "You're disturbed in the head, my morbid sister. Have a merry Christmas."

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!" called the boys; and she could hear their mixed carols even after closing the door.

* * *

Sherlock was lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Did my neighbor upstairs commit a murder, or are you trying to figure out the color of the spackle?" Molly came in with a sandwich- a sprig of holly on the top.

"What's this?" He stared at the plate she awkwardly set on the nightstand when he didn't take it.

She blushed and busied herself with tidying up the mess he'd made. "Um, nothing. Just being silly."

"Is it December already?" He asked incredulously.

Molly nearly dropped the map she was trying to fold. "Yes! Tomorrow's Christmas eve!"

Sherlock sat up, gazing out the window thoughtfully. "Really?"

"Yes!" Molly suddenly collapsed in laughter, sitting heavily in her chair, which sent Toby angrily into the next room.

"What," he demanded, getting out of her bed with a flourish. "What's funny?"

"Nothing, I just..." Molly looked at him seriously for a moment, and fussed with her hair. "Well, it's just funny to me. It feels like Christmas. Even though everything's been so terrible, I'm starting to feel...better."

Sherlock didn't have words to supply. Emotions, and expressing them, were not something he smiled upon. Generally, he avoided them or mocked people. But Molly's confession was genuine. And he understood her meaning. It was that realization that stopped his tongue.

"I'm just glad..." Molly struggled, stuttering like usual. "It's just very good that you're alive. And that you're here. It's nice. I mean, I like it. I guess. Not that I like you being dead- I mean in hiding- it's just that, I think, you should have people to be around. And I'm glad you're not dead because I would be a mess and probably really despairing and lonely, and probably, actually I'd be alone anyway, like this year. Only, actually, you're here. And, And. Well, I'm happy you don't have to be alone either. And that you're not dead."

Her speech ended awkwardly. The beat of silence between them pulsed beneath his skin. It didn't annoy him, this cryptic and bumbling monologue. Instead, he considered it. It fascinated him, the way she thought it all out and concluded. It was messy and genuinely insecure. Why was she so undone?

"That's kind of you," He said slowly. "I'm glad everyone is safe as well."

Sherlock left after dinner. Molly watched some sort of movie on T.V and put up garlands. She said she didn't want a Christmas tree. This was all really useless information, but it stuck in his mind and he wondered what the flat would look like when he returned.

Mrs. Hudson had her sister over. They were baking, he could tell from the shouting match they were in, and Mrs. Hudson was playing christmas carols loudly. Greg Lestrade was back with his wife, he could tell by the car outside. Their condo was dark, and their neighborhood was festive. It was unlike Lestrade, to seem at peace. Sherlock remembered the children's poem about Saint Nicholas and thought foolishly of the man narrating the poem. He imagined Greg's new life to be a cheap replication of this. A sham of pleasure forever onward- Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

John's flat was dark. Sherlock stared up at it. Waiting, waiting for a clue. A detail. Anything. Then, suddenly, a light came on. Silhouetted against the night was a well-figured woman. Her hair was long, and her body moved out of sight, followed shortly by a sleeping, limping, John. Sherlock's mind sped-up over the scenario at hand. John was with a woman, typical. But the fact that it was so soon to Christmas, that it most certainly wasn't his sister or any other woman he'd dated- lead him to believe this was something to be interested in. He frustratedly looked for a car, a dropped card, anything, to help him identify the woman. He brashly climbed the gate and peeked in the front window. The coat rack held John's coat, the landlord's, and John's neighbor Craig's coat. And, an expensive but practical woman's peacoat. It's red colour highlighted the style of a certainly successful designer, however, the pockets seemed full with... something. Obviously the objects weren't important, otherwise they'd be upstairs. A few multicolored spots could be seen around the hem, and on the sleeve. The collar was worn, obviously from being turned up and down several times. She was busy and simple then. The spots, he guessed fingerpaint-prints, after spying the sticker on her elbow, gave away her profession: tutor for a wealthy family. Possibly even a full-time nanny. The otherwise great care for the expensive coat-most likely a gift from the children/mother- lead him to believe she'd be well mannered. She'd have to be respectable to have such a job.

He backed away from the building again, and looked up. John dashed past the window and snatched his woman to him, their embrace became frenzied as the ex-soldier picked the lady up and turned off the light once more. Sherlock scoffed out-loud into the night and turned away. John always attracted quirky females. Yet some part of him was slightly insulted that John seemed to be back on his feet.

Molly had fallen asleep, tinsel in her hair, and Toby trapped in an overturned box labeled "ornaments". Angel and nativity figurines were scattered about various surfaces in no particular order. He pulled the remote from her hand and turned off the t.v. Toby hissed at Sherlock when he set him free, which awoke Molly. She kicked the packing paper and christmas books aside to form a path to her bedroom, and exhaustedly fell onto the bed without even getting undressed. He watched her sleep from his spot on the sofa till the clear, bright night overtook him too.

* * *

Molly came home from the groceries with food enough to feed six people. Sherlock watched her glow from the kitchen as she put things away. Finally, she stopped and turned to him, a bright smile pinned below her shining eyes. "You took the arm out of the fridge!"

"I did." He leaned back in his chair, only pausing from the book he was reading.

"Thank you so much, Sherlock, really-" She froze. "W-Where did you put it."

"Hmm?" He murmured, returning to his book on the Greek alphabet.

Molly hummed and flew about the house till it was utterly annoying. He was about ready to shut her in the hall closet when he caught her blushing over something in the living room. A silent stride behind her allowed him to see a withered sprig of a plant in the bottom of one of her ornament boxes.

"What's that?" He asked.

Molly jumped, bright red. "Mistletoe!" She squeaked, and ran back to the kitchen. "Must've forgotten to throw it out last year!"

Sherlock frowned. "Mistletoe?"

"Viscum album?" She prompted.

Sherlock frustratedly rushed through information catalogued in his Mind Palace. "I don't know this plant."

Molly's eyes widened. "You-" She left her pots and pans to find a book for him on the shelf. "Here."

Sherlock read the passage she left it open to, and after the scientific readings, a passage at the bottom of the page, emblazoned in cheesy text book style was:

_"Shakespeare calls it 'the baleful Mistletoe,' an allusion to the Scandinavian legend that Balder, the god of Peace, was slain with an arrow made of Mistletoe. He was restored to life at the request of the other gods and goddesses, and Mistletoe was afterwards given into the keeping of the goddess of Love, and it was ordained that everyone who passed under it should receive a kiss, to show that the branch had become an emblem of love, and not of hate."_

"Ridiculous." He spluttered. "I remember this plant now. My brother used to kiss the maids under it in the season." Sherlock bitterly returned to his sofa-companion for solace against the ever stupid world.

Molly laughed self-consciously. "Well, I've never actually used it. Greg and his wife kissed under it year before last. That's the only time I've seen people do it in awhile though. Except in movies."

"Boring." Sherlock moaned.

Molly apologized, and came in to offer him a glass of wine. As she stepped into the living room, a loud popping sound sizzled and the lights turned off. There wasn't even a flicker.

Blackout.

After persuasion, Sherlock agreed to help her start the fire. After a bit of a fight, he got it blazing, and they huddled in blankets near the hearth.

Molly gave a happy sigh. "Happy Christmas Eve, Sherlock." She said sheepishly.

* * *

Sherlock had never felt Christmas. He partook in the festivities to appease others, but left to his own devices he'd avoid it completely. Molly's ugly christmas sweater shimmered in the firelight. He gulped the wine. Also something he wouldn't usually have done.

"I fear I'm not pleasant company for the holidays," He said cynically.

Molly started. "Oh! No," She paused. "It's not your fault."

He couldn't tell if she was mocking him. "You look ridiculous," He defended himself. But truly, he was intrigued by how the sweater seemed to please her in an ironic way, highlighting, to him, her strange sense of humor.

She nodded. "I know. Dad and I used to buy the ugliest sweater's we could find on Christmas Eve and wear them all the way till Christmas morning. Henry hated them, too."

"And your mother?" The question surprised him, as well as her.

"She died when I was really young. I don't remember her. Hal says she used to sing on Christmas morning. That's why he always did." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Anyway. What did your family do for Christmas?"

"We had a dinner. My brother and I would open the silly gifts like all children do." He cringed at the memory of having to open the boxes and display them for his family like a pet. "When I was old enough, my brother and I would deduce which presents were from which relative and so on. The holidays were a time of survival, not merriment." He drank his wine and stared at the flames. Painful memories knocked behind their locked doors in his mind. Molly startled him:

"I'm sorry," Her face was very serious. "That's terrible."

Sherlock examined her empathy in his peripheral vision. "Yes, well. One year my father gave me an authentic Pirate sword. I didn't hate it, although it was blunted and shortened by my mother's request."

Molly's glow came back to her, and he almost regretted giving her material with which she obviously seemed to enjoy expanding on in her imagination. "Did you play pretend when you were a child?"

"All children do at some point." He retorted, and pouted into his wine.

Molly leaned back, pouring herself more wine, which made him watch her with fascination. Either she could hold her liquor, or Molly liked to make the most of her vacation times.

"Thank you for the other night." She said it as if it had been weighing on her. "I don't know what I would've done without you." As always, she muttered and tried to sound as if she didn't mind.

"You need to take better care of yourself. The memory that haunts you..."He hesitated, the Christmas before last coming to mind. He went on. "It only holds as much power as you give it. Scientifically, these dreams are echos and responses to your anxieties."

Molly was silent, waiting for him to finish an explanation or deduction that he had decided to stop midway.

The room became uncomfortable. Sherlock finished his glass of wine and poured himself another. He wasn't himself. The world around him seemed trapped in some sort of "Molly Hooper" bubble- he was suffocating in air that smelled pleasantly like his pathologist.

"Last Christmas," Molly reminisced. "Things were so different."

He knew that all too well.

"I-what you said..." each word came painfully. Sherlock listened to them and the silence that filled the subtext of her injury. "I'm sorry I told John about what you said to me."

Sherlock wasn't expecting that. "What?"

Molly nodded, and slurred on. "I thought about it over and over, and I know you trusted me and I felt so bad. I didn't mean to embarrass you."

He felt his mouth grew dry and his skin hot. This fire was too scorching. "You have no reason to apologize."

She jumped ahead, "All the same; I wanted too."

"My mind," He said slowly. "Was elsewhere that night." He glanced over at her rigid posture. "I haven't thought of what made me respond the way I did since then."

Molly chuckled. "I know, that's just how _my_ mind works..." She sipped her wine, and stared at him a moment before saying. "You never opened my present."

He returned her steady gaze; it was unusual for Molly to challenge him in this way. It crawled under his skin. "What?"

"Do you want to open it now?" She asked.

She was teasing him.

He didn't reply right away, and when he opened his mouth she jumped up and fetched the red box that she'd snuck away with that night. It was very nearly the same. He wondered vaguely why she'd kept it wrapped, why she'd kept it at all...

A Churchwarden Clay pipe.

He stared at it and the tobacco in the box. It was the oddest gift he'd ever received... and yet...

Molly's attentiveness told him he ought to react in someway. He thanked her simply, and pulled the stemmed pipe out of the box. He felt Molly studying him as he fiddled with it.

"Do you have a match?"

She nodded. "Go ahead and smoke it. I can put up with the smell for the sake of Christmas."

He watched her as she searched for matches. His blood rushed, and something warm unfolded in his chest.

The pipe fascinated him. The tobacco excited him. She was at once enabling his addiction while having chosen the most odd gift she could have ever picked out...

And he really,

truly,

enjoyed it.

Next to the pirate sword, this pipe was by far the most enjoyable gift he'd ever received.

"It's a good thing, actually, you didn't open it that night." She said, handing him the matches. "Then it would've been in Baker Street and you would've had one less thing with you now."

It didn't even matter that Molly's slightly tipsy state was chatty and hyper. She watched as he lit up, and leaning back against the chair, he began to smoke it.

ahhh, yessss.

"What made you think of it, Molly?" He asked, no longer able to contain his curiosity- but of course asking deliberately.

She shrugged. "You're just the sort of person who would enjoy one. It took me awhile to think of it. But I'm not even sorry I did. Even though John and Greg will be after me like-"

The fire, though dying, and the tobacco smell, and the silence. They carpeted and muted the words that died from her lips. Sherlock didn't correct her. He didn't make a remark that she still had time left.

He was beginning to doubt whether he'd ever return again as well.

In the dim red light, he felt Molly relax. He looked up, unsure and slightly wary of what he'd find in her expression.

Her brown eyes settled on his. The smoke stung their throats. But her eyes spoke continual acceptance. An impulse came to him, and he followed it. Perhaps it was the nicotine going to his head. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, while his free and brushed past her hand in a meaningful tough.

As he tilted his head to speak in her ear, her hand held his in return, and though his blood was boiling and muscles rebelling, he said: "Merry Christmas, Molly."

He sat back a little ways, examining the way her brows knit together, and her chest heaved steadily. Their hands unclasped. He returned to his pipe. "Thank you." He added.

_Mycroft was talking just to hear himself speak. Molly, her hair down and make-up cleaned off walked to the presumed body of Irene Adler._

_"You didn't need to come in, Molly." He stated, her presence still making him feel guilty from earlier. Guilt was strange. It wasn't something he'd ever noticed before._

_"That's okay," She seemed to be about as forgiving as John and Mrs. Hudson for retreating from the party. "Everyone else was busy with," She paused to breathe- yes. Irritated. "Christmas..."_

_She explained the state of the body, and Sherlock half listened. The way she looked now was a vast improvement to earlier._

_He also noted that she was alone on Christmas._

_Just like him and Mycroft._

_Just like him._

"Snow!" He felt Molly sit up; her blanket fell on top of him. "It's snowing!"

Sherlock felt stiff and cold. He had a slight headache from the nicotine and alcohol last night. Not to mention the power hadn't come back on, till recently it seemed, and they had fallen asleep sitting up.

Molly clapped her hands and went to put on tea and toast, she crossed the apartment and froze.

"Sherlock?" Her voice strained.

"What?" He groaned, no longer able to pretend he was asleep.

"There's an envelope here... addressed to you."

He stood quickly, and tore it from her hands, four pictures slid out. One John Watson and the a slight, blonde woman. The next was a picture of Molly entering her flat. The third-Molly gasped- was of Sherlock watching Molly open her front door. The day he'd first come to her. And the last was of Sherlock kissing Molly's cheek, the firelight illuminating him taking her hand.

_On a sticky note in the corner was a note that said:_

_Care to explain?_

_Season's Greetings,_

_-MH_

* * *

"Doctor Hooper," Mycroft Homes said smarmily. "I see my brother sent you in his place? Or perhaps he's worried about blowing his cover. You can assure him that he's not as clever as he thinks he is."

Molly frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" Mycroft sneered. "I admire your courage, Doctor. However, I've known for sometime now. As you gathered from the pictures."

She stayed silent.

Mycroft folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. "Thank you for coming in."

"I didn't have the choice." Molly felt herself stiffen, an equally annoying woman with a black car had nearly demanded she get into it and drive away to an unknown location.

Myrcroft sighed. "How'd you do it?"

Molly mirrored Mycroft's posture and leaned back.

"I'll be frank, Ms. Hooper," Mycroft said pointedly, leaning forward. "I will offer you any amount you wish, if you can turn my brother over to me."

"So you can reveal to him that it was you who told the newspapers all that rubbish?" Molly straightened up.

Mycroft studied her. "I think it's clear I won't be getting anywhere with you, Doctor Hooper. I thank you for your time."

Molly stood up and gave a short bob-like courtesy. "Thank you."

"Molly?" Mycroft called, causing her to stumble slightly on her way out the door. "My brother is a boy when it comes to affairs of the heart. I advise you to proceed with caution."

Molly flushed down her neck and turned away confused. What did that mean? He was obviously mocking her.

* * *

"Well," Mycroft said. "You've certainly evoked a new side to her."

Sherlock stepped from behind the drapes opposite Mycroft's desk.

"You trust her. But can you love her?" His brother mused. Mycroft was still irritated with him for the incident- even though he'd known for nearly four months now.

Sherlock glared. "How's Mummy?"

"Well as can be expected." Mycroft pursed his lips.

"And the diet?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft barked. "It was easy for my men to find you. And I know there are others looking. You knew Moriarty better than I. You know what he's capable of."

Sherlock frowned.

"I am only asking you to be more careful." His brother's pompousness calmed briefly. "And to beware of whatever you may be thinking of as far as Ms. Hooper is concerned.

"Doctor." Sherlock corrected absent-mindedly, looking through the stack of photos Mycroft's photographers had taken.

Mycroft side, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Alls well that ends well. But let us strive not to fall for the same fate as Capulets and Montagues."

Sherlock's expression taunted his brother in the way he knew would rouse his temper. "Friends, Romans, countrymen. How touching."

Mycroft stood, and gestured to the door. "Merry Christmas, brother."

"And a Happy New Year," Sherlock returned wryly.

* * *

Rather than a song this time (because this chapter was much longer than usual!) I will promise 10,000 points to the appropriate Hogwarts house if you can guess where the title came from. Rate and Review- and don't forget to go check Molly's Dream if you feel so inclined.

Merry Christmas! err...Happy 4th of July!


	10. A Catalyst

Whaaat? Another post so soooon? I'm going to be a bit busy this week, so I wasn't sure when I'd get to update on Thursday. It's a bit shorter than I had planned for this chapter, but after writing this part and reading your kind reviews and PMs, I couldn't help but post it now :) Also, before I do some shout-outs (because I don't think I'll individually reply to all the reviews) don't forget to go give me feedback on the One-Shot (if you feel so inclined to read it)- It would be utterly helpful and I'd be extremely grateful. On with the replies!

General reply: haha. I thought I was being really clever and obscure with my last chapter title... guess not .

MizJoely: Aw, thank you for your kind comments- they always make me smile and are so encouraging. I'm glad you liked Mycroft- He was surprisingly easy to write! I was prepared for the opposite but ended up just having loads of fun :)

ICEMASK: OKAYYYYYY ;)

Kathmak: Thank you! I kept thinking of you while writing it- a little different (okay a LOT) different from what we talked about, but heh. I'll do that one for realz sometime in a one-shot lol

Whytejigsaw: thank you! I just couldn't help it honestly, was way to much fun... and now Christmas is going to end up being dragged out for three chapters...haha! I promise it's not on purpose!

Alice Indigo Opal: YES! your thought process is actually how I came up with the title. I had a few of those lines floating while writing it... and then the one I chose came to me :) Thank you for your enthusiasm :)

Renaissance: (I'm just going to call you that because I feel like we're kindred spirits) meeeep I'm so glad you mentioned the pipe. I can't take full credit for the idea, because I saw someone mention the pipe once on Tumblr, and it just felt right. However, I did a bunch of nerdy research on it thought . and also, YES to Mycroft. lol. So yes. He just is. I can totally imagine Gatiss doing that as well... ah, me. and an awkward-belated-christmas-happy 4th to you, too! ;)

A/N: I own nothing... not even Molly's Christmas gift. I DO take credit for Molly's family members (OCs). I do NOT take credit for any of the in-continuity in my forwards though... that's just a little gremlin that likes to prey on sleepy writers.

* * *

Sherlock felt Molly stand up from the couch and lunge towards him as the lock unlatched. She began off in a nervous stream of consciousness, confessing her interview with Mycroft. Of course, he'd heard the whole thing and didn't need a recount. What he needed was a plan. He had to move quick. If Mycroft's men had caught him, certainly, by now, Moriarty's assassins had spotted him.

He chuckled and clapped his hands together, "Oh, clever. I'm brilliant."

"What?" Molly stopped mid-sentence, confusion blurring her expression.

"My plan's worked, Molly, perfectly."

"Pl-plan?" Molly gaped. "You have a plan, I didn't know you had a plan?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and searched the flat, under the Christmas ornaments and garlands. "I told you I did."

Molly tried to hide her pout. "You never kept me informed. Or gave any impression other than being miserable."

"I was, then Mycroft confirmed my suspicions." Sherlock snatched his scarf from the bed Toby had made of it.

She wilted. "You went to your brother? Then why-"

"Molly," Sherlock returned, finding his coat in her closet. "I respect your wish to not play the pawn. However, it would be of great importance to me if you assisted in acquiring information from Mary Morstan."

She blinked rapidly. "Who?"

Sherlock snatched the packet of Mycroft's photographs. "The blonde. John's new girlfriend. Mycroft and I spoke before you arrived. He mentioned her. I'm curious."

"How'd you get to your brother before I did? You stayed home- John's got a girlfriend?" Molly tried to keep up, snatching his glasses off the top of the television, as well as a knit winter cap and red mittens.

Sherlock looked at them in disgust, but donned them. "Ms. Morstan could blow the wobbly foundation of what's left to Moriarty's network."

"What do you need me to do?" Sherlock turned slowly to the woman standing with tight shoulders next to him. Her hands fiddled with her own scarf and hat, waiting for him.

"Visit John and quiz Ms. Morstan." He stated, pulling on the detestable mittens.

Molly nodded sincerely. "Um, Sherlock... I need to know what's happening. If I agree to this. I'm not sure I want to spend my Christmas snooping-"

Her hat and winter clothes gave away her lie, but Sherlock pressed her. "You won't bother them. The fact is, my cover may be blown and I may have confirmation on a suspect assassin. Therefore we are limited with time. You will be in no danger, I'll protect you. But others may be, so it's crucial we take this opportunity- my advances are finally producing fruit in favor!"

_In his mind, Sherlock felt Moriarty stirring like a dragon lying on it's carefully guarded treasure._

"What do you mean? How long have you been playing at this? Have you been spying on everyone as bait towards assassins?" Sherlock was impressed that Molly had put it together so quickly. Only Momentarily, however... When Molly got upset, she could be so very tedious. Sherlock sighed. He glanced over her stature while she stumbled forward, explaining it all to herself internally and struggling to make him respond. He was lost in the blaze of her eyes, her flushed cheeks and rushed breath. The intensity at which her frustration filled her body sparked his mind, and he caught on to her distress as she finally voiced what was really bothering her.

"You've been using me again, haven't you?"

Molly continued to floor him with her truthfulness. "Of course not. You're my friend."

Her brows puckered while her mouth quivered pleasantly in thought. "Last night..."

"Was a fortunate catalyst." Sherlock snatched her coat from behind her, and hurried her into it. "Places to be, Molly. I know your kindness has been taxed. Naturally," He held the door open. "If you feel it's too dangerous, or intrusive I understand your cautions."

Molly hesitated, holding her gloves to her chest and twisting the fingers. "_Will_ it be dangerous?"

Sherlock studied the change in her demeanor, the dilation of her eyes as she stared out into the hallway.

"Most likely."

She breathed in, the muscles in her chest and neck tensing up slightly. "If I don't go?"

Sherlock found himself intrigued, her body language was sending off flares, and all the evidence he'd ever noted suddenly fit together in his mind. He carefully stepped towards her, shutting the door slightly. Her eyes lifted, the delicate curves and points to her face baring themselves to him. "I can do as well another way. This is the most convenient and efficient, but you know that as well as I. It's not fear or social conduct that worries you. You're a woman who spends her days cataloging dead bodies, so you're not put off easily. More than that, you're socially awkward, self-conscious in many ways women usually are, but also twice as intelligent. Your confidence has been crippled by several things. Chiefly; the lack of a mother figure, your father's death, loneliness, and abuse of some kind by none-other than Moriarty. You are the best person for this job, and I need you, again, Molly Hooper. But you are no pawn. And you can make your own choice, although I know what you're going to do, but it is an important choice that you no doubt know the consequences of. So you must ask yourself if you want to, for your sake."

She gaped at his sudden rant, her eyes widening. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let's cut to it then, do you trust me?"

Though her lips were dry she muttered a soft 'yes', her eyes conveying more of her wistfulness than he initially saw in her. He ushered her out the door with a hand to the small of her back. Though she was hidden beneath a sweater and coat, her shape caught him off guard. Molly snuck back behind him to lock the door, and looked up, with an attractive determination on her face he'd only seen when she worked in the morgue. Her eyes connected with his, it unnerved him, and when the breathed as one, saying "Let's go," and "Yes, let's"; He felt that the mousy Molly Hooper he'd once known had disappeared for good.

* * *

Songs to keep you company:

-Find Me Here, by Eisley

-Slow and Steady, by Of Monsters and Men

-Falling Slowly, by Glen Hansard/Marketa Irglova


	11. Blackbird

Well, I did it! Last Christmas Chapter ;) Curious to see how you all feel about this one... It's been in the works for awhile, but I think it was time to jump even though I was afraid to...

Responses:

Rocking the Redhead: Oh, thank you so much for your understanding of this fic :) I'm glad you're able to feel it the same way I do. Your encouragement is... encouraging! :)

Alice Indigo Opal: Goodness! I'm flattered; I blushed when I read this. thank you so much for your appreciation, research is something I get in to... So thank you for noticing! :D I too think that the likelihood of Sherlolly happening in the series is reallllly doubtful. Yet as Benedict Cumberbatch said in an interview with Queen Lou, "There's always hope for Molly". Thank you muchly!

R.A Rodgers: Welcome to the black hole that is EIA! ;) Thank you so much for your sacrifice and dedication to reading it! I'm deeply touched by your response- makes me feel like this experiment is worthwhile indeed! I can't wait to read more of your reactions and for thinking so highly of this project :) ahnweo;ageer! I'm just so touched! You're all being so nice to me!

Crimson and Chrome 42: Wish Granted ;)

Icemask: haha. I always love your comments! All in good time. I promise it will be worth it! (knock on wood)

Renaissance: oh yesss. OH yes :) I tossed her in, but she's wormed her way into my heart (being slightly OC in thsi fic) and I'm enamored...Hopefully she lives up to her canon counterpart- and selfishly, I hope she exceeds it ;)

Angel in 221 B: Oh! It was actually just a really dramatic metaphoric image... showing my fantasy roots. #The Voyage of the Dawn Treader #The Hobbit

NZcalling: Oh my gosh, thank you. I almost cried when I read this- your review caught me at the perfect time. Your compliment meant so much to me. It's been my goal to channel Moffat and Gatiss in a fangirl way for this... So basically what you said makes me feel like I'm doing something right! XD

AdaYuki: *bing!* wish granted! Thank you so much :D

A/N: God bless the BBC, Gatiss, and Moffat. I don't own anything they own. Which is probably a good thing... hehe.

* * *

Mary Morstan was nice. Really, Molly thought, she was quite the kindred spirit. She had impeccable style, and was quite intelligent. She had a great sense of humor, too. Her temperament put Molly at ease, and soon the three of them were swigging homemade cocoa and laughing. Something about John and Mary's relationship made Molly feel at home. Like things were familiar and everything in the world was as it should be. She very nearly forgot she was supposed to be collecting as much information about Mary as possible.

What reminded her was the incident in the kitchen. John had offered to begin cooking Christmas dinner for Mary (she was alone for Christmas this year, and asked to keep John company). All had been fine, and Molly was finally getting to ask her things that might be useful, when a clatter and thump came from the kitchen. Like a shot, Mary was up and at John's side. He had a bowl of stuffing all over himself and the floor, and his cane was (at that moment) out of his reach.

Molly watched just out of sight as Mary asked in kindly hushed tones; "Are you alright?"

"Fine." He answered curtly, fussing with the stuffing.

Mary snatched his cane and helped him up, "What happened?"

"I was making the- bloody stuffing packet wouldn't-" He huffed. "Maybe you'd better do it."

She smirked and kissed his cheek. "Not a problem. Molly!" She called, and Molly made her appearance known. "Would you mind helping me with dinner?"

John settled at the table, grumpily frowning at his feet. Halfway through an explanation on how her father had been a high ranking officer in the Army, Mary threw down her handful of carved turkey and said: "Stop it."

"Stop- stop what? I'm not doing anything, I'm just sitting here!" His defenses rose with his eyebrows.

"Yeah, well, it's putting me off. Stop it." Mary snapped, and returned to Molly.

"I'm not even speaking, I'm just sitting. In a chair. Staring...Crazy woman." Even as the words were out of his mouth, she spun on him, blonde pony-tail sliding off her shoulder.

"I feel so sorry for you, John Watson." Her voice started sarcastic, but ended sincerely.

"You do. Why?" He crossed his arms.

"You're in the company of two beautiful girls on Christmas Day, and you're being a moody dick."

John's eyes searched her face, but then he chuckled. "You've got the social tact of a four year old."

Mary's eyes lit up and she leaned forward to kiss him. "Mmm, but you think I'm cute."

He batted her away, blushing, and stood up. "Nope. Stop that."

Mary batted her eyelashes. "What?

"That," He pointed his finger in her face. "You're acting all childish and flirty. Now, you behave yourself and act like a hostess while I go get more stuffing."

Mary tip-toed and kissed him again, then helped him into his coat around the corner. Molly felt intrigued by their dynamic. It was entertaining and not at all uncomfortable.

"I wouldn't tease you in public," she could hear Mary's chuckle, though it held a tone of self-consciousness.

"Yes, you would. You like to show off." She heard another tell-tale kissing noise.

And Molly's heart sunk to her feet. Mary was not only the perfect match for John, but they both took care of each other. And she had a touch of eccentricity to her that made John's flat somehow feel like Baker Street...

She thought of how Sherlock's habits had come to mesh with her own much in this same way. Molly would try to make the best of it all, living outside of herself while absorbing it all within. And Sherlock would sprawl over everything like a cat. Claiming it as his own. She smiled at the memory of coming home from work to find him sitting cross-legged on her coffee table, interacting loudly with an episode of Downton Abbey.

"Boyfriends, eh?" Mary sighed, resuming her attack on the large Turkey.

Molly smiled wanly. "Sure."

She gasped slowly, "Oh, I'm sorry. John told me that you..."

"It's alright." Molly shrugged. "If it was supposed to happen, it would have."

The young woman nodded. Her black lashes closed, a sincere expression of thoughtfulness passing over her. "Um, do you mind... if I ask about... him?"

Molly was taken aback slightly, but said she didn't.

"It's just that... John's been so depressed..." She shook her head. "He and Sherlock were really close. Do you, I mean, do you think the way John does about how he..."

Molly remembered her brother's calls after the Fall. It had been surreal then, knowing Sherlock was so near and lying about him being dead; and it felt surreal now. "I do. Sherlock Holmes was a good man."

Mary nodded. "Right. Thank you. It's just that, people seemed so skeptical about his death. And they were so gossipy about it. It wasn't like he was a real celebrity, or anything, right?"

She smiled at the woman's jadedness. It was no wonder John liked her. "How did you two meet?"

Mary's glow, twinkled off her earrings. "Actually, that's how. I was talking to this man at a news stand, and telling him that I thought the news oughtn't over dramatize things, and John overheard me. He backed me up and got into a pretty heated discussion with the guy. The hulk even threatened to kill him. I was worried, so I walked with John a ways- He's not bad looking, you know. And," She tried to hide the 'new-love' energy, but it burst forth anyway. "The rest is history."

"The man threatened to kill John?" Molly tried to remain calm. "Why? What did he say to him?"

"Not much, just that he'd better watch himself, or something. Had a thick accent..."

She breathed in and out. Was that important? Or not at all? Something told her it was, by the fact it had bothered both John and Mary so much at the time. Molly changed subjects. "Does the age difference bother you?"

Mary smiled. "Oh, it's not such a big difference. I think it bothers him more, though..."

Molly bounded down their steps, crossed the street, and met Sherlock in the shadows.

"Enjoy your Christmas?" His voice reverberated off the icy bricks of the alley way.

"Yes," she admitted, worried to let him know how much. "Mary is perfect for John. He's very happy."

"Is he," huffed Sherlock. "Splendid. Brilliant. Fantastic."

Molly rolled her eyes. "You don't have to be so mean about it. This is why people would tease you about being gay."

"It is not." He snapped. Then, "Is it?"

Though the air felt sharp, her lungs burned and radiated heat through her. "How was Baker Street?"

Sherlock turned his coat collar up. "It doesn't look like I'll be able to break in till Mrs. Hudson leaves after new years. They're all settled in."

She knew how it must be frustrating him, and how the danger of it all just made him want to get back to Baker Street as soon as possible, to do some investigating. The hidden cameras he'd found there before the Fall were nagging in his mind. Molly couldn't help but let her worries slip away from her. It was Christmas after all, and this new companionship felt so right. Even with the buggy winter-attire, his old nature had returned to him. There was purpose in his step. That, more than anything, made her feel brave. She was seeing things through his eyes, the world now a battlefield. It reminded her of a poem she once read, or a picture she'd seen painted.

All those things he'd said to her had been true, of course.

And she realized what he'd been telling her all these years when she parted her hair differently or tried new makeup.

All she needed to be was herself.

She was enough.

The thought made her stand a little straighter, and move a little more confidently. Although she fought down the shiver when he held out an arm to stop her from exiting the alley way, it was a thrill she cherished. Molly felt that with every fiber of her being she wanted to reach out and take his hand. Was it the lateness of the hour? Or too much Christmas spirit? Yet, she felt more than alive.

Fear fled through her fingertips and toes with each step in tandem with his. Jim Moriarty was gone and dead. Only his memory remained. Yet this, Molly felt sure as they finally reached home, was really in the past. He was gone, and with his death lay a threshold for both her and Sherlock. All they had to do was leave it by taking the next step.

"Are you tired?" Sherlock asked her, tossing his coat, mittens, and hat aside.

She wasn't. So she told him what Mary had said. Sherlock didn't feel as sure as Molly that the random citizen Mary had mentioned could be a threat. But he jumped at the chance to investigate something. Anything.

The flat was dark but for the golden sparkle of Christmas lights. Snow was falling again. Christmas day was done. Molly peeked at his cheekbones and his eyes focused in thought.

Then, out of the peacefulness, he spoke: "Is John happy?"

It took her a moment to realize that he wasn't asking after the hope that his friend was happy, but out of some sort of resigned curiosity.

"Yes."

No expression crossed his face, but he steepled his palms together, and stared into the space before him. Molly sat quietly with him for a time. Listening to his mind churn. It came time for her to leave the sofa, and the cool air woke her enough to send her to bed.

"I'll just leave you to think over things for tonight, then." Molly knew he didn't need telling, but she wanted to say it anyway. "I should probably get some sleep, anyway. If you need anything, wake me up. It's fine."

She got up, but her wrist was captured by his agile fingers. "I meant it, Molly. What I said that night... You're invaluable."

She could have sat there all night, his hand wrapped around her, holding her gently yet sincerely. He didn't look at her, she didn't look at him. But she felt a pulse. And every breath mattered.

Finally she turned her head. His other hand took her fingertips. The ticking in her veins was pressed, and her palm read.

"Thank you." She managed.

He let her go, and resumed his thinking. She walked to bed. Undressed. And slept.

After New Years, Sherlock woke her up. Mycroft Holmes had visited the night before, informing his brother that Mrs. Hudson had left town, and so she knew that whatever his plan was, it was ready. It had been a long week where his disappearances became more random. Or maybe she just noticed them more since she was on Holiday and that the risk felt bigger. Sherlock had been more lively in the last several days. Yet his cryptic argument with his brother left her certain of a few things:

There was a suspect

His plan was very dangerous

Sherlock needed to be on a case so badly, he was becoming erratic.

She'd caught him looking at her a few times. Each time she'd offer coffee or ask if she was doing something badly. Several trips to the mirror in the loo did not support this hypothesis, however, and so she was feeling as angsty and uncomfortable as he by the time January first came.

Baker Street was coated in dust and absolutely frigid. Sherlock had picked the lock with ease. Molly waited cautiously as he scanned the apartment, searching for something. He instructed her to stay, and in honesty, Molly wasn't sure why he'd brought her along. Aside from the fact that he'd instructed her to bring her medical kit. She didn't get that much use out of it, which only made her feel more useless. Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen, and then into his room.

Molly followed unnoticed.

There were many artifacts and useful charts scattered sparingly, and on one surface sat an old picture of him and Mycroft. The elder held an umbrella, and several of his teeth had been blacked out. As she was studying this, she heard a musical plinking from the main room. Within moments a quick-paced, haunting tune reached her ears. Molly stood in his room, looking out the doorway and watching him cradling the violin in his limbs. He never had treated it with particular care, but with the abuse of a life-long companion. The tune changed to something sweeter and more complex. It was nearly dreamlike, but strung out in such a way that Molly felt magnetized to the movement of his bow. Sherlock was an artist, she realized. He was a mass of colors and impressionist expression. Molly felt so simple in comparison. What could she possibly offer him that was of any worth? Yet he'd said she counted. She mattered. She was valuable.

The final ringing notes soared from beneath his fingers and bow, and as they finished, a shot ripped through the air like a thunderclap. It shattered the glass, and Sherlock dropped to the floor.

He rolled to the side, and lunged at his bedroom door, shutting Molly inside. It all happened so quickly, Molly stood staring at it till she had absorbed the shock slightly. Then she was at his side, searching for wounds, when he hissed at her to leave.

"What?" She asked, feeling like a car that wouldn't start.

"Leave. He hasn't shot again and he missed me on purpose. He's just giving me a warning that he's here." Sherlock's face contorted as he escaped from her distressed hands.

"Who?" Molly felt her muscles tighten and her head beginning to pound.

Sherlock frowned. "Sebastian Moran."

Molly flushed, struggling to put her medical kit back in order so it would close. "Who?"

"Moriarty's right hand man and gunman, if I'm not mistaken. The second most dangerous man in Britain. Now the first." Sherlock didn't seemed frightened, but rather pleased with himself.

"Then why'd you bring me here?" Molly snapped nervously, crouching beneath the broken window with Sherlock, who was waiting with his hands in his lap.

"In case he shot me on the first go." Sherlock stated.

Molly glared, feeling her frustration rise. "You knew he wouldn't! Not when you take the bait hook, line, and sinker!"

Sherlock scanned her over and gave her the usual patronizing smile. "Could you go hide in the closet, Molly?"

She stubbornly sat in silence near him till she heard steps on the stairs. Sherlock sent her one heavy stare before facing the door of 221 B.

Molly left for the closet. It smelled like cedars and spearmint and cigarettes. All faint smells, but ones familiar of the old days. Of course, things were different now. So very different. Her heart ached and then dropped as she heard the front door creak. The floorboards creaked. And then she heard him speak. It was muted, but she knew the strength of his voice. She couldn't hear the response. Carefully, not even breathing, she climbed out of the closet and nearer to the bedroom door. Beyond it, a stiff, lilting voice slid like silk over her skin.

* * *

Songs to keep you company:

-Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 violin arrangement

-Blackbird, by the Beatles

-Shelter, by Eisley (Sorry, not sorry. Just obsessed with Currents right now... le sigh)


	12. Guns and Roses

Hello! Another short-ish chapter today. It felt right to post it now though- originally it was going to be one long chapter. But this just felt better.

Responses:

Crimson and Chrome: Haha! Thanks ;) I totally know what you mean, so thankyouthankyou

Alice Indigo Opal: Haha! I had so much fun with John in this chapter, I think I've finally hit my stride with him. He's actually not easy to write... merm. Thank for the support :)

Renaissance: yay! I'm glad you liked it! I made Mary more OC of course (because we don't know her yet! and I want to take some liberties with her... sorry ACD .)

AdaYuki: Bless you! Yes, let's see, shall we? ;)

MizJoely: Actually, yes, she was. I've been thinking a lot lately on the dynamic of successful relationships in #therealworld when I started thinking about BBC Sherlock ("A dangerous past-time-" "I know!") and the long and short of it is that I did it deliberately. The slightly complex explanation is that I've noticed how alone John and Sherlock were before they met each other. In terms of relationships, they fulfilled each other's friendship needs better than most can. They really have something special. John wouldn't settle for a life partner that was just like any of his string of girlfriends...She'd have to be someone to complete him with her own uniqueness-but also be able to be his best friend. SOoooooOOoo...That's why I've introduced when/how I have. It's all very nerdy ;)

A/N: If I owned Sherlock Sherlolly would be real and Gatiss/ACD would cry. I'm pretty sure everyone else would throw a party, though. (I don't own it)

* * *

Sherlock waited patiently for Sebastian Moran. His footsteps fell with casual ease, and when he rapped his knuckles on 221 B, Sherlock was already standing and neatly tucking away his violin.

"That was lovely," Moran said from behind him. "You're a true artist, you know."

"Thank you," Sherlock bit out. He took in the sniper. His clothes were loose fitting, but judging by the state of his button-down shirt and tan line, he normally dressed much more comfortably than 'business casual'. "The finale didn't end in the way I usually approach it."

Sebastian smirked. "There's that wit! You clever bastard."

Sherlock didn't laugh. "What are you wanting to accomplish here, Moran?"

His gaze turned cold, and he drew a gun out of his coat. "Well, I think you can guess that. You know me better than anyone else with one glance over, I'll bet."

Sherlock challenged his stare, and the revolver being extended towards his head lazily. "You're not going to kill me. You could have. Many times. You could have a year ago, six months ago, and you could have made a clean shot through the back of my head seven minutes ago."

Moran smiled. "High praise! You're flattering me, mate." He grinned, and beckoned him to continue.

"Notorious, among the Network, for being Moriarty's right hand man. Ex-Army Captain. Gifted Sniper. My assassin, for the event that I hadn't committed suicide." Sherlock ticked each item off, judging the bags under his eyes. "I take it things haven't been going well in the _crime_ business."

Even as he said it, he felt his Mind constrict and put up walls in defense of Moriarty's name.

"It's not my cup of tea, no. I'm good at what I do. And I'm the only one who can afford to," He chuckled. "I take it you know about my divorce?"

"Yes," Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "And your gambling habit."

Moran tilted his chin, "Oh, we know each other so well, Sherlock. It's too bad I'm going to kill you, now that you've done all this lovely research."

Sherlock flicked away from his deductions. "Are you?"

Moran matched the friendly chuckle. "I am. I want to get this job over with. Hand the network down to the next candidate as soon as I feel satisfied with a job well done."

"Then what?" He countered the gunman, weaving his way around a few of the boxes Mrs. Hudson had managed to pack before Mycroft bought the apartment. His eyes wandered distractedly.

"I'll retire." He matched Sherlock's counter, pacing casually. "But I have justice to serve first."

"You're avenging your boss's death. How charming." He was becoming increasingly bored with this new, opponent.

"And then some," Smirked Moran. "Don't worry about that now. We'll get to my part later. I just came to explain the Last Game to you ."

Sherlock frowned, his circling steps pausing.

"Moriarty and I were close, Sherlock. Not a cute couple like you and John, but we worked with precision and accuracy. And the thing is, Holmes, I want to give him a proper send-off. Especially since you've been clever enough to be able to participate-" He stepped close to Sherlock. "We're going to do this in Jim's honor."

Moran held out a black envelope with Sherlock's name written on it in caps. When he finally reached out to take it, Moran spoke again. He had the rough gravel to his voice that someone who'd been working for government paid positions held.

"Do you ever feel his presence in your mind? I do. He haunts everyone. That's part of his genius. He knew how to leave an impression." He wiggled the gun, "Like you."

Sherlock stared down the barrel, focusing on the scruffy, dark man. "If I don't play?"

Moran's voice matched the strength of his firearm. "You will. We both know you will. But," He dropped the gun, and walked toward the shattered window. After a beat he smashed it more, then turned on Sherlock's bedroom door- gun poised. "In case you're unsure of who you're dealing with- let me leave you with an impression of who I am."

The door was kicked open, and Sherlock saw Molly falling back onto the floor. Moran grabbed her by the hair, and shouted at her to get on her knees, bringing her into the main room.

"This is who we missed. Your little girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend" Said Sherlock.

"We're not dating" Said Molly.

Moran's eyebrows were drawn in parallel with his lips, aiming at the back of Molly's head. "So it won't be a great loss for me to kill her now?" He challenged Sherlock with burning coals beneath his eyes.

Sherlock's mouth went dry and an ache by his temple pulsed. His jaw clenched. His joints tightened. "What purpose would that serve?"

Moran pushed Molly's head down, angling her better. "It's an art, blowing someone's brain out of their head." A wicked, pleased, grin stretched the skin around his mouth. "The blood goes everywhere. Traditionally," He explained. "I like to shoot from a distance. It's what I'm known for. But there's nothing like sending a bullet straight through the back of someone's skull. And she's got such a lovely one. It will shatter it like _glass_."

Molly's body waited in submission. Sherlock felt compromised. "_What purpose would it serve?"_

"You need her." Moran said simply, pulling Molly's head up by her hair again. "I have heard she's a dream in the bedroom," His gun stroked her temple and jaw line; "But I can't have her go off and help you fake your death when it's time for you to die again. It could be very efficient."

Her brown eyes looked up to him, devoid of any expression- just waiting. It confused him, though he could easily guess her reaction. She was shutting herself down.

"Decent measurements, if you catch my meaning. I can see why you like her." Moran sneered while checking her out. "But in the end, isn't she just a little plain?" He unbuttoned her top and fitted the gun to her chest. "She's really so boring and predictable. Jim would kill himself if he were alive to know."

Sherlock grabbed the man, causing him to flail the gun. "Let's. Play. The Game." He growled.

Moran straightened himself up and aimed. Before either could react, he'd pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened, and Moran continued to pull it, explaining. "Empty."

He picked up the discarded letter and handed it to Sherlock forcibly. "When you're ready to start the race, call me." He closed the door and descended the stairway.

Sherlock tore open the black envelope, and into his palm fell a candy wrapper.

* * *

Songs to keep you company:

Not a Robot, But a Ghost- Andrew Bird

Seven Nation Army- the White Stripes

Kill and Run- Sia


	13. Nocturne

Well... Chapter Thirteen. What shall I say about this? I wrote it in one go and felt about as good as I feel I will be. So... I'l just nervously post it. REQUEST: I own up to the fact that I am a shameless fan-girl. I'm also probably self-absorbed. Or at least absorbed in this fic... merm. ANYWAY. Are any of my lovely readers artists? Would anyone want to come up with some cover art? PM me if you have ideas... Please forgive this grovelling. Maybe you'll forgive me after you read?

RESPONSES: (Would you all prefer I do it at the top or bottom?)

MollyHooperRules: Thank you so much! Your compliment makes me blush and smile and explode :)))

R.A Rodgers: firstly-NO! Thank you for your lengthy response! I LOOOOVE them! I hope some of your musings were given something to latch onto with this chapter. Molly's response was a surprise to me too- not necessarily a lack of planning. The scene just pulled that way and I liked it. I think it sets up the action to come...THANK YOU THANK YOU for your love of my Moran (as weird as that is to say!)! Please DO keep reviewing! :) They always make my day! :)

Pond Creature: heh! Your mustache twirling makes me really happy because of reasons :)

MizJoely: Ohhhh yes. Well.. When I say... I mean... the short answer is 'yes' ;)

Renaissance: gurrrl, I feel you. My original plot was more like that... But it's been done a lot. I'm trying to spin it differently to the best of my knowledge of the BBC canon... Nevertheless, Sherlolly fics is Sherlolly fics, and it wouldn't be an epic without a "game" of some shape or other. haha!

AdaYuki: Your enthusiasm ALWAYS encourages me :) So kind of you!

Rocking the Redhead: My feels exactly. She IS her own woman, of course, but the first impression being THAT impression for Mary was weirdly important to me... She's a bit of a foil, if I'm being honest. I think there were a few typos in the last bit of your response- or I'm just really dumb and blerrg. Might need some clarification- BUT I WILL say that Moran was being hyperbolic and outright mocking Molly. (Go read the one shot! ;) Moran IS Moriarty's right hand man... in my mind Jim mentioned "sleeping" with Molly and Moran used it as amo...no pun intended. and YES. Molly/Loo are SO beautiful! They inspire me with their beauty inside AND out!

NZcalling: THANK you thank you :) Moran was a bit daunting at first- but everyone seems to like him so I'll be contented ;) haha. Your reviews are always so thoughtful! Always make me sit up a little straighter and remember to smile :)))

A/N: I really don't own anything related to this but the words I used... Really, I don't. If you're someone famous reading this, I apologize for my inability to control my imagination. To my fellow Sherlollians- Thank you all for your continued support! :))))

* * *

He caught the wrapper in his hand, and let it fall through his fingers. Molly was still sitting like she didn't know what to do with her limbs. She didn't look up. A dull stress pulsed through him.

"Molly?" He spoke at last, after waiting for a response.

She didn't rouse herself, and he knelt down. It was with resentment toward Moran that he lifted her face, hearing Moriarty's mockery and John's chastising shout at him through the whirring in his mind. Her eyes, shining windows, looked past him, and then down. She carefully extracted herself from the floor and picked up her medical kit.

Even as she began moving, he noticed the signs of panic beneath the surface; her body manifested itself with shaking and wheezing even if she chose to close herself off. Her silence made him uneasy. They collected their things and left Baker Street, Sherlock took his violin.

* * *

_"__So, Sherlock. What do we think of Moran?"_ His Mind Palace was glaring and in old form. But still, Moriarty's voice haunted him.

"He's a joke. Doesn't care. It's merely a cat and mouse game." He said frustratedly, trying to think what the Candy Wrapper could possibly signify. He'd solved the kidnapping case... Hadn't he?

_"Mmm, and Poor Molly. Saintly, Virginal, Innocent, Molly."_ Moriarty's voice buzzed in his ear. _"What do we think about that?"_

Sherlock glanced over to Molly Hooper, allowing his eyes and mind to open. He catalogued her every physical clue:  
-panic attack and asthma attack flaring, but under her emotional control  
-few bruises will develope  
-nature is quiet.

This was all obvious. It was contradictory. She hadn't screamed, or even struggled much.

He hadn't tried to save her.

Sherlock brushed this thought off, only to be bombarded with Moriarty's justification:  
_"You did all that was logical. Better to keep calm and in control than to try and play hero."_

Sherlock was tired of this. He no longer wanted games and Moriarty's style. He'd much rather turn the gun on Moran and shoot him through the heart.

_"Well! That's new."_ Moriarty sung, _"And how does Molly feel about your brash and risky field-trip?_"  
Sherlock's eyes opened again, this time trying to read her more clearly.  
-She was leaning far into the other side of the car  
-She was trying to calm her breathing and watched the city run by out the cab window  
-She was thinking

_But about what?_

The thought reverberated against his mind, with no response. He tried again, scanning the flicker of her eyes or the twitch of her fingers, the mildest hitch in her breath.

All it revealed to him was a white wall.

Nothing.

And it wasn't that there was nothing inside her, like moments ago in the flat. She had many things in her head, he could practically hear them, and it frustrated him.

Sherlock did not like feeling so groundless.

Molly Hooper had never been a question mark. Molly had been an enigma, a contradiction, even in the last few months- but now the data was unsupported. Nothing to stake a claim on. It was like falling, and she controlled the fate of his fall- once again.

Frustrated with her statue-like compliance, he returned to the case; the candy wrapper in the black envelope.

* * *

Molly got herself a glass of water, and could feel Sherlock already fussing with his make-shift lab.

Moran's firm hand prints were all over her.

_"I've heard she's a dream in the bedroom"_

She cringed. But with a wave of something like adrenaline from her stomach and mind, she was able to cut the feeling off. She stuffed it into a corner. Hiding it. Refusing to think about it. Moriarty was haunting her- but still, this new presence made Sherlock's existence suddenly less mystical.

He was leveled. He'd fallen.

Molly wished for his hands brushing back her hair, for the strength of his hands and arms to protect her and understand her, for the brush on his lips apologizing...

"Why did you take me with you for that?" It wasn't a question.

She could feel his body stiffen.

"I trust you." Was his only response, he was focused on the experiment.

Molly felt the chasm break. It swallowed her, and the emotions she'd been hiding pooled over. She felt for the three buttons Moran had undone. How easily Sherlock had been able to stick a gun to her heart by sitting behind a microscope. She wanted to laugh, but the lump in her throat forced her to stay still. No tears, Molly. Not for this.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee?" Her voice was more bitter and broken than she'd meant. It was sincere.

His eyes shot up, and his posture changed. "No."

Molly nodded, feeling her body quake. How ugly she felt. How small.

How alone.

She'd been living over six months with Sherlock Holmes, and she was more alone than when she'd started.

His eyes held her, and it made her feel naked. They didn't move and there was no frantic energy of deduction- but it was more than she could bare. He saw past her and through her every second of every moment they'd ever spent together.

And Molly, instead of picking herself back up again, let him see how wounded she felt. Neither moved, and she let all that she felt emanate from her.

When she couldn't take it anymore, she sighed, set the glass down, and went to bed.

* * *

Mycroft hadn't been happy. Everyone was upset about the "break in" at Baker Street. Even a few newspapers did an article about it.

And Molly called in sick. She stayed at home, lying in bed or on the sofa in a large sweater and old jeans. Her hair was in a simple braid, and Molly allowed herself to sleep on and off for three days in a row.  
Sherlock was gone most of that time. They hadn't spoken yet. She shouldn't have been surprised. And the momentum felt emphatically like the old days. He didn't need her for anything, she'd gathered. For he would switch between search engines and the microscope almost constantly.

Molly's lethargy had at last begun to sour. She felt it in her teeth and stomach, and restlessness did not suit her. On the fourth night after their encounter with Moran, Sherlock had laid a timeline out on the kitchen island. None of his research made sense to her, but there cross-referenced names, places, and dates. As she sipped her tea, she noticed it looked like a web.

She froze with the sound of steps behind her in the dark of midnight. Before she had a chance to collect herself, a hand heavily was placed on her shoulder.

Molly felt a scream rip through her, in panic and terror, she dropped her scalding mug on the floor, splashing on her and her attacker. Molly struggled, pleading for Sherlock, begging for Sherlock, praying for Sherlock.

"_Molly_," The voice rumbled. It called her again, commanding her in a clipped tone, that only encouraged her to wrench herself around, and he caught her by the waist-

The arm that held her was familiar.

"_Molly_!" Sherlock all but barked.

He didn't let her go even after she stopped moving. His arm loosened as she fought off the panic attack with the help of his measured breathing.

She tried not to think about the fact that he held her close to him, but the warmth of his height made her feel safe. And through the tightening of her lungs and blacking of her mind one thought beat:

_It feels so right in his arms._

* * *

The new cup of tea in her hand wobbled with every sporadic shake of her body. He seemed absent, agitated.

"I scared you."

Molly took a deep breath of sweet steam. "I didn't know it was you."

Sherlock's coat was lying over the back of his chair, he was pacing. This did nothing to help her calm down. It felt so much like when he'd first come to her. This time, she felt comfortable being imperfect before him. She was not so easily charmed by him.

Somehow that made her ache even more.

"I know what comes next. Riddles. Threats. I've known where I am to go for the last week." He talks to himself as much as her.

"What's stopping you?" Molly mutters after a pause.

Sherlock gives her a look that says she should know by now.

"I don't understand," She laments.

She doesn't really understand why he's including her on this at all. _She's not his girlfriend, after all._

"Nothing is stopping me. I'm going tomorrow. Tonight." He gestures his hands impatiently. Then fiddles with her cat figurine on the mantelpiece.

Molly finds enough courage to stand and walk to him. She's always felt she could see him more than others. If anything she's learned since he's come to live with her, it's that. She knows he's worried for John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. And as he straightens up away from her, ruffling his hair and turning wildly, she realizes he might even be worried for her.

"I'll come with you." Molly says.

He gives her his best sarcastic snarl, "Yes. You've proven to be invaluable when the game is on."

Molly bares it despite the sting. "I'll still come. You don't like to be alone."

Something in his eyes snaps, and his mouth drops like a trout. "Oh!" His palms steeple. "Oh... Molly Hooper..."

She's confused but watches him move about in a gait somewhere between a swagger and a prance.

He spins. "Mycroft!" His eyes aglow.

Somehow, she knows she's helped him find a loophole. Again. As she's adding up the fact that Sherlock Holmes the high-functioning sociopath-ic detective is not entirely eager to take on a case, she senses him striding towards her.  
He grabs her chin and tilts her face up to him. With all the force of euphoria, he kisses her.

Molly reels and feels her knees weaken. His lips are soft and pluck at hers in such a way that she understands at once what a kiss can truly _become_. This kiss is a beginning, a sealing of something binding.

Instinctively, she yields. Her mouth moves with his, her free hand trying to find a place to land.  
_You can have me._  
_If there's anything I can do—anything you need, anything at all—you can have me._

And as soon as it happens, it's done. She feels that the universe has been torn from her, and it's cold- save for the mug of tea in her hands.

Sherlock rubs his hands together, clapping. "The game is afoot!"

Molly stands still. Can he not have felt it?

What just happened?

_It's fine. It's fine._

He notices she's frozen, and when he does, Molly stops breathing. The lips he's pressed to her still burn with an imprint. His excitement dies and his intensity is now fueled through his hard expression.

Silence has become common between them. Another ironic, full-circle of where she began. But she's too gone to care in this round. Their arms brush when Sherlock solemnly dons his coat.

He leaves her there in the middle of the floor. Molly understands what he has to do. She doesn't begrudge him that. Even so, the door clicks behind him. And it's like something final, a tolling bell. Toby mews in the corner. The ventilation rumbles. Her tea is cold. Molly takes a sip, and goes to lay down on the sofa, knowing he won't be back.

* * *

Songs to keep you company:

Hide and Seek, by Imogen Heap

Sort Of, by Ingrid Michaelson

Say It To Me Now, by Glen Hansard


	14. Sanctuary In A Lion's Mouth

Another shortie... But I couldn't keep putting it off. Execution is hard, my dears. Actually, it's taking risks and the fear of ruining something that makes it hard. Not to mention my "real" book is pestering me, plus my book-script adaptation that I've promised friends...C'est La Vie. One step at a time.

RESPONSES::

Daisherz365: oooohhhh yeah. It was a doozy for me too. Less of a crying and more of a maddening foaming at the mouth sort of a way ;)

MizJoely: RIGHT? Oh Sherlock. I'm so afraid of Season Three. Not necessarily at the impending reality that Sherlolly isn't canon, but also the sadness of the fact that I'm pretty sure Gatiss and Moffat are LITERALLY plotting our demise with the a$$ery of Sherlock...

R.A: I love your review so much and thank you thank you bless you- but I'm going to respond to it in a PM; for fear that I write a novel in response :) thanks!

Renaissance: haha your emoticon sums it up perfectly. I should just quote your comment in place of the title. Henceforth the fic would be known as "On top of it all, he snogs her" .

KathMak: SEEEEE I told you there was a method to my madness! :D I really didn't intend this fic to be so angsty. But it is what it is. However, I can promise you kissing is definitely going to happen again in the future (maybe not next chapter, but soon. I have no patience for fics where the Sherly to Sherlolly is gone for like a third of the fic...) and I'm really stoked about the plot development. Thank you for your compliments! :D they mean much!

CrimsonChrome: Your reviews are always so thoughtful and insightful. I greatly appreciate them. It's not the end, but even as I wrote it, part of me died a little :-/ It's treacherous waters our ship sails in...

Icemask: haha! oh no! I'm so sorry! Even sorrier I left you hanging for so long! :(

AdaYuki: I just love your enthusiasm. It makes my entire life :)

Rocking The Redhead: I'm so sorry :( I feel guilty every time you guys react to these- It's always a surprise and I always feel like a puppet master...haha BUT I can tell you that no, he's not gone forever :) SHERLOLLY5EVER

A/N: I own nothing, and I pray to BBC that Gatiss and Moffat never find this. I would blush till I exploded.

* * *

"Are you certain, brother?" Mycroft sets his tea cup down carefully.

"Yes." Sherlock groans that he even needs to justify himself.

The other stands slowly. "So Sebastian Moran intends to let the Crime Network disintegrate?"

Sherlock confirms this in a bored tone, sipping his coffee. It tastes different. Too much sugar.

"And after your parlay with Mr. Moran, you intend to take me up on my offer," He folds his hands together, studying his brother with tense posture. "In it's entirety."

Sherlock sets the cup down, looking Mycroft straight on. "I've always wanted to go to France. I'll take up smoking again."

Mycroft scowls. "No."

He scowls in return, snatching up his tea and crossing his legs. "Then I'll continue my studies on Tobacco Ash."

After several minutes of silence, Mycroft's elastic mouth turns sour. "I don't like it."

"Too bad." Sherlock snips.

Mycroft paces. "You're avoiding the game you've started. Moran could kill anyone easily. He will stop at nothing to destroy you."

Sherlock's eyes burn and his molars vibrate. "I'm already destroyed."

His brother draws himself up to full form. "Let's behave our age, Sherlock."

"Yes, _Mummy_."

A rattled sigh escapes Mycroft and he looks off into the air beyond him, as if fathoming something he'd never cared to accept.

Again he breaks the stillness. "What happened with Dr. Hooper?"

Sherlock stiffens.

"Shall I wait for you to grow up or shall I figure it out?" Mycroft all but crosses his arms in true eldest brother form. "The fact that you're turning to me when your curiosity is always your most powerful motivator clearly shows you're _worried_ about something. But not worried enough to risk death, so you're still _curious_. Something has compromised you, then. Given that it can only be either Moran or Molly at this certain point in time, and it's clear to me you're unimpressed by Moran. Furthermore, you have three long hairs stuck you your suit and coat, respectively. So Molly has gotten close to you. Because this evidence is suggestive of the usual rompings I can only assume that you- being who you are and claim to be- must've been trying to smother her. Perhaps to prevent her from catching on fire? Or protecting her from a bullet?"

Sherlock was unamused, he continued to ignore his brother.

Mycroft sits again, teasing in a resentful tone. "No. Whether by proximity or by her unaffected feelings for you, she's_ found her way into your Mind_. More than that, she makes you_ stop and think_. No man can compete with you. Yet Irene Adler proved that_ a woman_ could not only compete with you, but _beat_ you. You, little brother, have fancied yourself a god among men. And now you have seen through Molly Hooper's eyes what you are..."

Their eyes read the other's.

"A freak." Mycroft picks of his tea cup. "We're not like them. We're better."

"That's what you tell yourself." Sherlock mumbles, not an emotion passing his lips.

"And so I repeat," He lets the cup clink as he adds more cream. "What happened with Dr. Hooper?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He changes the subject, making flight plans with Mycroft. Both of them are discomforted by his avoidance. When he stands to leave- to meet Moran in a sweet factory some distance away- his dead voice is nearly muffled by the upturn of his coat collar;

"She sees me... and believes I am more than what I am." His voice is an embarrassed, humble, pensive baritone his brother has only seen used once or twice since he quit his drug abuse.

"Then she sees greatness," Mycroft hands him a cigarette for luck. "Despite it's arrogance and facade."

Sherlock lights the cigarette. It's rosy glow and chalky smell ignite him for what he must do.

* * *

The cigarette but is ground under foot. The darkness of the old warehouse does not stay quiet for long, and somewhere beyond a door slams. Feet fall heavily, and Sherlock's mind begins fitting pieces together. Echoes fall like rain.

"Good afternoon," Moran calls from above. The open building reveals he's walking down a metal staircase to meet Sherlock. "Are you ready to play?"

Sherlock is living two-thirds in his mind; listening. Cataloging. "I'd rather not."

This gives Moran pause. He draws his gun slowly. "Okay...Why's that, old sport?"

He can almost feel Moriarty cringing in his mind. Ghosts lift from the dust and grime, and Sherlock holds himself still. "It's not the same."

Moran laughs. It's a short barkish sound. "No. That's not the point. I'm paying homage. Moriarty wasn't supposed to die, Sherlock. And I'm going to bring justice upon you. Soon, very soon, I'm sure, we'll be back at Baker Street. And you will _beg_ for your life when the bullets bleed through your heart."

"Do it now, then." Sherlock says. He feels a calmness in his sincerity.

The gunman shrugs. "Alright. But then there won't be anyone stopping me from killing your friends. John- and his little girlfriend- Mary, I think? Lestrade and his children. Mrs. Husdon will bleed. Mycroft will bleed. And your pathologist will be taught that not even she can cheat death."

He withdraws into himself, senses heightened. As Moran draws the gun, his Mind Palace takes him to somewhere he feels before he envisions it: the lab at Barts. Watching the black barrel boring into his bones, he can smell _her_ even before he smells the must and tobacco he and John have carried from Baker Street. It is _Molly's_ presence he feels before a dozen chemicals and facts help him to calculate what has happened.

He can't swallow it.

Caring is a defect found in the losing side.

_That's why he's forfeiting._

Moran is aiming effortlessly from across the lab table. "I'm going to lie her out like a cadaver and fill her skin with craters. I'm going to destroy her, Sherlock. And I'm going to savor every moment of it."

Moriarty is sitting on a counter opposite. His face masks dramatically, a smirk that makes Sherlock's chest clench and hands fist.

"What is it you want me to do? I've figured out who the kidnapper was."

"Yeah?"

"You." Sherlock is back in the darkness of the warehouse, his eyes latching focus on Moran.

He shrugs. "I'm not good at puzzles. That was Jim's expertise."

"Apparently. What's your next move?" Sherlock nearly grinds his teeth and keeps a steady eye on the gun being pocketed before him.

"Well, I hear you've got a holiday booked with your brother in Paris." Moran shakes his head. "I'm kind of offended. However," He sucks in air. "I'm going to use it to my advantage. We'll take a holiday. And when you return- you'll know when- we're going to play a game of Centipede," He pulls a gun out of his coat. "And we'll see how much of the Network you can kill before I kill you."

He holds the gun out to Sherlock. "Jim talked about The Final Problem you two faced in his last days. He had so much potential, he was a genius. And you've killed off the greatest man I ever knew. He took me in when I had nowhere else. So, once you figure out when it's time for round two, you'll return. Round three," he gestures to the gun Sherlock now holds. "Is when I make you kill yourself-Or I'll kill you."

* * *

It's been three months since he left. She'd be lying if she said she didn't cry about it often, or close herself off from people. The first two were torture. Molly couldn't bring herself to visit John and Mary, nor Susan, Henry, and the boys- as they so implored. She was grieving for more than the thought of never seeing him again. A million questions flooded her mind, and every time she tried to logically come up with an answer she'd get the sinking feeling that Sherlock's tombstone may no longer signify lies.

One morning in April, Molly decided she wanted to open the blinds. The city fell in on her and engulfed her mercilessly. The light in her lab sung and buzzed. Somewhere between charting notes and running tests she realized that she loved her job. She was really, so lucky. Nevermind she didn't fit in with the faculty and staff. Nevermind she was up to her chin in dead bodies all day. When Greg Lestrade came sweeping in- the heavy perfume and telltale marks of his wife pressed to his neck- she felt giddy with the sense of accomplishing something.

That night, when she returned home, she walked. Past shops and places she hadn't noticed in a while. Toby chirped at her and she fed him, petting between his ears. She had felt watched, felt things out of the corner of her eyes. But it was with sudden relief that she felt it didn't have to matter. Sherlock was no longer under her protection. He was not at the other end requiring her devoted attention.

It wasn't that she could stop loving him. That would never be possible- unless Molly had a completely skewed idea of what love was. But it was the vibrant memory of his kiss and the cruel hope that lingered-always, always- that she wanted to be free of. If only she could love him without the pain. So she realized after another guilty night spent on his sofa (it would always be his now) that she liked being alone.

Well, she liked being independent.

She _liked_ her cherry sweater.

She _liked_ her lipstick colors.

She _liked_ her hair however she liked it (however that may be...)

And so she was beginning to feel a little guilty of having ignoring people's calls when her mobile rang. Shocked, though a little excited, she answered the phone to John.

"Molly?" His voice was hushed.

She sat up, knowing that it couldn't possibly be about Sherlock, but-

"Listen, I hate to call you so late, but Mary's just fallen asleep, and..." His voice sounded tired.

"It's fine," Molly listened. "I meant to call you anyway."

"That's okay. Um, here's the thing... Mary-Mary's boss was found dead last week. The kids found his body after lunch, apparently. It's been really hard on all of them."

She empathized, and wondered vaguely why her life was so full of death. "I'm so sorry, John. That's awful for her."

"Yeah," She heard him sigh heavily. "I feel awful for Mrs. Adair. Her husband was apparently the most generous man Mary's ever met. Excepting her father, of course." He gave a weak laugh. After an awkward pause he continued on. "Look, she doesn't have many friends besides me. And I was wondering..."

"If I'd take her out sometime?" Molly would feel awkward and nervous, she knew. But for the sake of John, an unhappy "girls night out" she could handle. "I'd love to. Of course. Whenever she feels up to it."

"Brilliant," He yawned. After thanking her, he hung up, and Molly lay alone in her flat once more.

* * *

Sherlock lay underneath the large mahogany table in Mycroft's French Manor. He sketched letters and lines on it's underbelly, carving the number 3 emphatically. He heard a snore from the parlor, and poked his head out to see Mycroft sleeping in his chair. Springing up, he made a few more notes in his computer about Tobacco Ash, and then dug his pipe out of it's hiding spot. He hadn't told Mycroft where he'd gotten it, and Mycroft hadn't asked. Nevertheless, he did pry about the gun. Sherlock, of course, ignored him. He tapped the stem of his pipe to his jaw, releasing tendrils of smoke from his lips. As the smoke infused him, he could imagine her eyes, brown and dilated, her clear face warmed by amber fire-light.

The pipe clacked against his teeth and he took another deep swig. Her kiss had been more than platonic. The kiss that had set his flesh sensitive, and his mind hyper-aware. Though it meant nothing- why had she gazed at him so breathlessly?- his Mind Palace came buzzing forward. It had hit him like pavement, and now, whenever he thought of her, the whole world seemed easy. He could carry it on his shoulders. He could read minds. He could read the future, with just the touch of Molly Hooper's lips.

It made no sense, except that his body thrived on those chemicals she evoked in him

He coughed, stowing the pipe away as Mycroft stirred in his sleep. Diving beneath the table, Sherlock could hear Moriarty singing_ Humpty-Dumpty_ in the Lab. Brandishing his pen, he set to work drawing lines between Moran and Moriarty in his elaborately coded web under Mycroft's 1600s dining table.

* * *

Songs to keep you company:

(Sleeping At Last onslaught...not sorry)

Birthright

No Argument

Careful Hands


	15. Quiet Ascensions Into The Valley

I'm not going to bore you all with excuses. I'm just going to tell you the story.

But before I do, I want to say THANK YOU to all your supportive comments; I will reply to them soon.

Also, I want to tell you ANOTHER story. I've been the arts instructor at a theatre camp this Summer. We've been tackling a lot of things with this current show, and doing some big thinking. Today I found myself talking about inspiration and how while it's a bonus, artists can't wait around for it. Inspiration is the work itself.

So I was brushing my teeth, agonizing on how to write this and when. And my own words came to haunt me.

What are you afraid of? Don't think, feel. Inspiration is the work itself.

I own nothing, just my thinks. (also, p.s, sorry for the tense confusions. If it bugs you all enough, I'll repost it laterz :) XX)

* * *

The body always seemed alive. Death was never dead. She cut into the woman in front of her. What if she had done this to Sherlock?

Count your blessings.

Molly shrugged her shoulders, adjusting her lab coat, and glanced at the clock. In a few hours she'd be meeting Mary Morstan for coffee. They'd made friends online. Her page was filled with pictures of her and John. He was growing a mustache, and in its own way, the effort was endearing. Mary gave him a terrible time over it. Despite it all, they never seemed to be separated. A small part of her was jealous. All she had were a few pictures of her cat and family. She spent hours pinning knobs onto idea boards for her kitchen. Her life seemed to lack a pulse that John's had.

The heavy presence on her table reminded her of work. She didn't _try_ to be alone. In fact, her determination to be less alone had only made her aware of it more. Her co-workers at St. Barts didn't understand her. They were straight-laced professionals. They reminded her of the bodies she practiced on. No pulse.

If her life had been hooked up to a machine, she would've flat-lined by now. The tell-tale beep would be echoing over every memory in her daily routines. She noticed his absence more than ever. Not only was he gone from the lab, but he was also gone from her home. No slippers to trip over, no blankets to pick up off the floor.

The smokey smell still hadn't left the flat. Ten months he'd been dead to the world, and she was just beginning to try to move on.

If only he hadn't kissed her. She cursed herself as she absent-mindedly nudged a limb off the table. Her phone beeped twice. It didn't help that her hair kept falling in her face.

After detangling herself, she was able to glance at her phone. Time to clock out. Extracting herself from work was never easy. Never. Not even with _him_ gone. This was a fixed truth. It didn't matter the change of routine or heart, she realized recently, the taste of a dream coming true will only make it harder to let go.

And that's what it had been. Despite its brevity. Despite its difficulties. Despite it's awkwardness. Sharing life with Sherlock Holmes had been a dream come true. He was a jerk (she punctuated this thought by emphatically turning off her computer after signing out)but it was going to take time to grow past him.

And she really thought she could now, truly.

Spring was the perfect time for new beginnings. New friends.

* * *

Mary's blond hair was swept up in a neat do. Molly felt self-conscious about her bedraggled state, but tried to hold herself taller. To smile.

This distraction of trying to be happy with herself lead her to trip into her seat, which had an uneven leg and wobbled as she squeaked it into her table with Mary. The girl (for that's how she seemed in nature, truthfully) smiled in an amused way and welcomed her in the manner of high-court, tongue placed firmly in cheek. After their laugh and orders Mary began to talk.

"John's really overly concerned for me right now. I *am* wrung out from work- but I'm alright." Mary drank her tea.

Molly nodded. "John's got more emotion than he lets on. I hope setting up this play-date is the extent of his over-protective side."

Mary nearly snorted. "Oh, thank God you see that in him. He can be such a stick in the mud. Remember Christmas?"

_How could she not?_

"He's been changing ever since I met him..." She returned to clutching her tea cup. "Loss does that to people. They're never the same people you expect them to be after they've lost something."

The weariness in Mary's eyes struck a sympathetic chord in Molly. "I understand. Before he went... Sherlock was sad. My dad too. It affects everyone before we notice it. It hurts more because of that after they're gone, I think."

Mary's brows knit and she focused on the corner of her napkin. "I want to fix it. The kids...Paul's going all dark. Dawn keeps in her room and just wants to read all the time. It breaks my heart to watch them... And their mother is so frustratingly emotional- then like a switch she doesn't care!" Mary's short fuse broke the tension while she gave a frustrated shout. "It's angering. And John, bless him, doesn't know how to help. Though," She adds thoughtfully. "I'm glad I've been lead to you."

Molly's heart thumps for a moment in search of what to say. She gives a feeble thanks, and listens to Mary complain about work. She has lots to say. The subject flips from being frivolous to being sober, and it takes all of Molly's energy to keep up. She's happy though. She's happy to listen. To feel as though she's become a part of something again.

* * *

Sherlock finds himself staring down at two bodies. There's blood on his hands, literally, and all he can think of as he walks away is how to get it off them.

Mycroft hangs up the phone with irritation when he comes in. "I think it's time you let me handle this."

Sherlock ignores him, and heads straight for his room. Myrcroft can whine all he wants. The bed is large and soft and he has no interest in it. Murder is stimulating business, to be sure. But it's messy and brutal. There is no precise method. It cannot be calculated. He is not the artist Sebastain Moran proclaims himself. Killing someone takes precision, and accuracy that can only come with practice. It requires a specific blood lust. It requires patience and confidence. It is not predictable. Each one different. It is this "artistic temperament" that Moran possesses that makes him uneasy. He may have no sensible mind. But the game of murder is not one Sherlock can stand up against.

Mycroft reminds him, shouting himself hoarse and purple from the other side of the door, that he cannot keep cleaning up for him. No matter how well he plays it-

Sherlock knows.

Molly's pipe lies next to the bed. He picks it up carefully but does not light it. Molly can close off her mind in some way to cut up bodies. Like himself. He wonders if she could murder. Like he. He has killed people. Criminals, too be sure. Men and women who deserved to die by instinctive ethics. She had offered to come with him.

_Why would she do that?_

He tugs the stalk out of a pineapple figurine on a chair. If Mycroft is yelling, he can't hear it. A syringe lies in it's hull.

_A 70% solution seems enough for today..._

* * *

Molly and John waited for Mary outside the Adair home. It was large with a precisely organized garden. A police car was outside, but it didn't worry them. The murder case (for that's what they decided it had been) had been going on for ages, and for anyone with relations to the Adair family, it was frustrating.

"That case is taking so long, Mary." Molly said, adjusting her wrap over her nice gown for their dinner that evening. "Haven't they found anything?"

Mary straightens John's tie and plants a kiss on his cheek before they head off. "Things don't add up. It's shameful." Her tone is bitter.

John tilts his head. "I might know some people who could help, Mary..."

Molly panics and cuts in. "John, I don't think that would be a great idea."

Mary agrees. "It's fine, dear. I don't want to put you out-of-the-way."

He shakes his head. "No, no. I've got this feeling. There's something not right here, and these things- people are incompetent. That's all I'll say." There's quiet a moment. "It just doesn't make sense that they can't figure out where the bullet came from. It shows a lack of knowledge. I'll just make a few calls, Mary."

"You're curious." She says.

Molly stays quiet, but thinks the same.

"I just want you to be careful." She runs her fingers through his hair and kisses his cheek.

The gesture is so soft and tender that Molly feels embarrassed. Her blush reminds her of Sherlock. And she's sure, that were he here, they'd be back at the Adair house investigating before John had even uttered the thought.

* * *

It's hard to wake up. His headaches and his arm is stiff. Groping for his pipe and the cup of coffee brought to him earlier, he sees Mycroft sitting in a chair opposite.

"Who was it last night?" He turns the page of his newspaper, eyes dark.

"Human Trafficking agent."

"Cause?"

"Self defence."

"You can't use that excuse forever." Mycroft angrily closes the paper. "When's this going to end?"

When Sherlock rolls onto his side, his brother heads to the door. "You're stagnant. And if you think shooting yourself up full of cocaine is worth the cost, tell that to your precious pathologist when she's counting the injection sites on your arm."

While Mycroft slams the door Sherlock shouts out i reaction, "She's not my Pathologist!"

But he knows she could be. Easily.

All it will take is a bullet through the brain.

He closes his brain, descending back into a dream where a dozen hands grab at his coat, and he walks on skulls to reach the security of his Mind Palace.

_"Do you get it now," _Moriarty asks, leaning between the door frames for the Fall and Molly's Lab._ "Why I like to keep my hands clean? You and I are alike. We've got to keep our minds from getting lost. That's why I stopped doing it myself. Lost too much of myself to the exhaustion of it." _He backed out of the way, waiting for Sherlock to pick a room_. "Sacrifice isn't worth it. No one can contain the mental anguish. That's the perk of being us. WE can play god. We can appreciate the fruit of our immaculate minds."_

Sherlock reached out his hand for the knob, twisting it, and throwing himself into blackness.

* * *

Songs to keep you company:

-Blue Lips & Man of A Thousand Faces, by Regina Spektor

-Your Bones, Of Monsters and Men

-Waking Life, Schuyler Fisk

-Down In The Valley, by The Head and The Heart

(More than usual... cause I couldn't remember if I've done repeats :S)


	16. Air Suite

Hi guys!

I am literally so tired that I'm going to be soooo lazy with the A/N...

I WILL reply to you all individually in the next few days (for the previous reviews)

THANKS for all the support! I have so many reviews and followers and favorites now- i didn't expect this... yowzah.

A/N: I don't own this stuff. BBC ACD SM and MG do.

* * *

Boredom made his mind sluggish, and though he regarded the pricks in his arm no longer with pride, they were necessary. To shut Moriarty out, he had to keep his mind active. Manslaughter, he'd found, hollowed it. Floor boards were missing in his Mind Palace. And as more lives he took- though all in self-defense- the more the vivacity of certain rooms lost their sharpness.

The woman on the pavement in the alley had been an artist. She's specialized in installation art, until she'd taken up Murder Staging. That was what she'd given herself as title under Moriarty's network. Whether it was covering bodies in the scent of a lover's perfume, or leaving a single lily in the child's palm, she'd watched murders committed, and helped with the _choreography_.

Nearly black hair, pale blue eyes and peach colored lips that now leaked blood left him frozen. It was a waist. She disgusted him, abusing her talent for seedy gain.

_"Admit it, Mr. Holmes," She'd whimpered under his accusations. "You're infatuated with my eye for the crime scene."_

_"Hardly," He snarled, easily noticing her hand reach for her knife. "Your arrogance poisons all grace and skill."_

_She lunged forward grazing his arm with a hiss, only to get caught in her left shoulder by his bullet. She crumpled to the ground. "Pot, Kettle, Holmes." Was her last whisper._

_And then, as each time had done, a shot ripped behind him. Just disturbing the wind, and finished the woman off_. He'd caught sight of the mystery sniper a few times. It didn't matter. It was necessary. It was inevitable. There was no escaping it.

She lay there, bleeding. Soon Police would come. Mycroft would accuse him of being careless.

Hell. What did it matter?

What did any of it matter?

He gagged on the glazing of her eyes, the thickness of her blood. Drawing the pea-coat around him, and the hat over his eyes, he left for the train station.

"Brother," He acknowledged him barely and boarded the metro.

"This won't continue." Mycroft said bitterly, "It can't."

The car was empty. Sherlock sat heavily in a seat and threw his coat aside, rubbing his cold limbs.

Mycroft steeled himself to the prospect of public transportation, and sat across from his brother. It annoyed Sherlock the extents his brother was going to be released from his betrayal. He was relentless and imperious in every action.

"You look ridiculous."

Mycroft raised a brow. "Interesting." He offered a lighter.

Sherlock pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

"And how long will _this_ go on?" He sighed wearily.

Sherlock made an aggravated noise. "I need it."

His brother coughed and fought to keep up his balance on the empty rail towards their current flat in New York.

He knew they'd gone to New York to get his mind working. Mycroft knew that there were very few people of interest to his "investigations" on Moriarty's network there. He'd been nagging and petty ever since Sherlock had started experimenting with drugs again. He knew why. And didn't care.

* * *

"Molly!" It was Susan, her voice matching the shrillness of her phone's ringtone at two in the morning. "We've got news!"

"Yeah?" She croaked, rubbing the ache between her brows.

"We're having another baby!"

Molly sat up, her energy stoked. "Oh, that's wonderful! Can I talk to Henry?"

Her brother sounded as groggy as she had felt a moment ago. "Molls? Hey."

"Hal!" She felt her grin from the very acid in her stomach. "Congratulations!"

"Yup!" He said in true happiness, but also tiredness. "If it's a girl we'll name her after you." Chattering was heard on the other end. "Whoops, Sorry. What? Oh. I'm supposed to tell you if it's a girl she'll have your name as a _middle_ name. We'll be naming her after our Mother. What?"

This went on for a few more minutes till the girls decided they'd all be better off going to back to bed.

Molly breathed a heavy sigh into the navy blue light around her. She hated the bitterness that was beginning to bubble. When she was a little girl, she'd imagined having three little boys and two girls by now. In that fantasy she'd had a handsome husband and a beautiful home in the country.

She wasn't exactly baking pies.

The room felt large and small.

"I don't need others to make me happy," She whispered to herself. "I'm content with who I am..."

In the morning, Mary picked her up for an early coffee run before work. John was with her, and they held hands just like two high schoolers. It was a grey morning. Not unusual, even in June. Still, Molly felt hot in her black blouse and sweater. John was also dressed more reserved. His mustache neatly trimmed, and his hair cut.

"We'll pick you up after work," Mary says because neither of them can speak. "Don't worry about getting off right away. I know how that is."

Thank goodness for coffee, Molly thinks. She's still clinging to her cup when she runs into Greg Lestrade in the Morgue. She blushes, knowing he's seen her standing there absently. She does that a lot lately.

"It hardly feels like a year ago." He says at last.

Molly shakes her head. "It feels longer, to me."

She sets her coffee down and snaps on gloves, preparing the body she knows he'll be wanting to see. They work diligently, hard at it as they do nowadays. Somehow they've managed without him. Like before.

"Hell, Molly. How'd you manage to see him like this?" His stance breaks. It's not the "at ease" of John Watson. It's a collapse. "How'd you do it?"

She wants to shout terrible things at him. But also wants him to forgive himself. She focuses on the question, measuring her response as well as the check on the wound. "I didn't. They brought in someone else. After I got sick."

Greg knows her mild history of panic attacks. She'd had one while under questioning about Jim Moriarty the first time. "I'm sorry. I can't imagine. I can't."

Molly tells him it's fine. What else could she have said, she tries to answer herself. All that comes to mind is the way her heart pounded with the unzip of the body bag. All she can remember is the way he'd leaned heavily against the walls and her arms. Bloody, dead to the world. She'd followed instructions. But it didn't make it less scarring.

"The truth," She says so suddenly she makes him jump. "Is that I couldn't handle him needing me. I don't think I could've, even if I was stronger or knew him less. He's not that sort of person. He wasn't be dependent on anyone. It's not how he is."

"Was." Greg corrects gently.

She flushes, and nods. Her hands shake as she writes up the report for him.

* * *

Her eyes were the most haunting part of her, he realizes, injecting himself once more. His mind needs it. He cannot dwell on the past. He sucks on the pipe, disposes of the syringe.

Molly's eyes. They were not beautiful. They were right.

Molly's mouth. It was small.

Lots of her was small, he recollected.

The fineness of her structure lead to her vulnerability. That was why her intelligence contradicted her personality. She should've been simple and elegant. She was awkward and insecure.

And bright. She was exceptionally bright.

Her lips left pink prints on her coffee cups.

Molly's waist was small. He'd noticed that first. He remembered, too, the way she chose to dress. It was dreadful.

It was interesting.

There were so many parts of her to discover. What lay in the especially intriguing corners of her mouth? There were things he could not read in that mouth. It was entirely too expressive.

Her hair never lay the right way and could make her look a windblown mess.

Her hands shook. Except when confidently working.

Her pulse had quickened that night when he felt it in her wrist. The feel of her hands were not a prima dona's hands, but a pathologists. They had tales to tell.

Her lips had pressed his so tenderly, so confidently.

Why would she have done that?

Was a kiss worth deducing?

* * *

SORRY for the limited music tonight. Its to late for me to dig through my playlist.  
BUT I ***WIIIIILL*** offer up a Q&A section in my profile. If you guys want info on my process, or me as the authoress, or my fangirlieness, shoot me some"interview"-esque Qs and I will update my profile by next time. Thanks for all your support!  
- Intro and Rondo Capriccioso Op. 28, Saint-Saens


	17. You, Sailor

Hi Guys! I've missed you!

I broke the fourth wall of depression, and out came Sherlock. I need to learn how to write even when I'm depressed... use writing as fuel to help me... This fandom helped me get through a tough year...anyway. We're getting personal here. But I thank you all for your patience.

ALSO. My plans of finishing this by the end of Summer? PSHAW. I say, if you all are patient with me that instead of breaking it up in three "books" as I was planning on, that we'll just carry the adventures through on this story-line into the next year. If you guys can be patient while I get started on my Freshman year at College (w00p acting and writing major DECLARED!) I promise it'll be fun :)

okay! Responses! (I'm replying privately to the ones pre-16):

Ells: Thank you so much for your review! I felt terrible when I didn't post another chapter immediately after reading it :( Sorry about that!

KraZiiePyrozHavemoreFun: Haha isn't it though... ;)

Renaissance: Your enthusiasm basically sums me up every time I read fanfiction... :) Haha, ohhhh the deductions we shall deduce.

GottaDance88: Thank you so much for your support. I'm terribly sorry it took me so long to update... I always appreciate new readers! Super encouraging!

Aviatress: Haha, yeah. Cliffhangers man... I don't mean to... And I kind of hate myself for them, especially being a fan of BBC... I watched an ep of Broadchurch tonight and cursed the sky at the cliffie... then I thought of everyone reading my fic... and felt REALLY bad . But not bad enough apparently. I almost ended on a worse cliffhanger than provided THIS chapter... Don't worry, I'm writing the next one as we speak... ;)

Magentacr **(+ everyone mentioning the drug use)**: yes... The thing is, I know you hate me for it... but it's canon. Sherlock Holmes is a destructive man... It even alludes to previous drug use in the BBC series. The problem with addiction is that everyone's an addict to something. Whether it's substance abuse or (in Molly's case) needing to be loved or (in John's case) the need to not be alone. ~that's my meta way of saying that while I agree with you all that it's a terrible thing, it's in character. AND that even though this is a drama/romance fic, I really don't want to delve into the realms of co-dependence... All we need is love, for sure... but it also tests the best and worst in ourselves. The addiction is something that, in the end, would have to be ended by the conviction of our hero.

...but the trick is, Sherlock isn't an angel. As Gatiss (or Moffat?) said, if Doctor Who is about a "god" trying to be human, then Sherlock is about a human trying to be a "god". ((I could not for the life of me site the interview I read that in...Google should bring up some context)) A hero's strength comes from within... not a girlfriend- though a support group is essential!

oooohkay. YOWZA. I just upped the word count on this by like 200... #EnglishMajor *ALSO, I love you guys, and I get that the apathetic posts were just that. However, I like to discuss things... and I hope that it was stimulating conversation and not an offensive lecture :S*

A/N: Take you me for a sponge? I own naught and ne'er shall. :(

* * *

The coming of Fall would mean pies, lattes, and dense food. She frowned at her pale body in the mirror. It wasn't shaped the way it should be. She didn't like her knees. She reconsidered the skirt she was planning on wearing that day. She fisted the rolls of skin around her waist.

Somewhere in the back of her mind her Dad's voice said in a teasing but comforting way that "everyone has chubs". Susan, even with her Tolkien-elf-like features and all, carried fat on her arms. So, even though she jumped and bits of her jiggled, she knew she liked herself more than beating herself up about a goal weight...

She sighed in resignation and got ready for work. If she was going to enjoy Autumn fully, it was time to break out the workout tapes again. Grabbing her boots and sweater she walked to work. The air held the condensation of Summer, still shadows of Fall lengthened.

* * *

The rocky beach shifted beneath him, slowing his get away. Another of Moriarty's crooks cornered and caught. He didn't bother to wait in surprise while the mystery-sniper murdered the criminal. He turned on his heels, heading back towards the little fishing village. The first shot didn't surprise him.

The second one did.

* * *

Mycroft was on a different plane. Sherlock realized immediately what had happened. The stitches in his shoulder, the heavy pain killers, and private jet were his elder brother's way of saying 'you've had enough games, it's time to grow up.'

He refused to take the pills offered to him by the stewardess. When she refused to answer his questions, he made a snide observation that a woman having an affair was in no place to play the hypocrite; so in the end he learned Mycroft was in Rotterdam, and the current plane was taking him back to London.

Irritated as he was, England was familiar.

* * *

Greg Lestrade felt hot. This case was taking far too long, and it was irritating him. His first big case back on the job, and it should've been much easier than this. It seemed simple enough. The Murder of Mr. Adair was a touchy subject with everyone on his team, and if Anderson was anywhere in earshot he became a defensive prick. Donovan was no better. She spoke boldly but rarely _thought._

He slid his phone around the desk as he ran through the murder scene in his head. He felt more tense and stressed as solution after solution held holes.

_"If he didn't kill himself, someone else killed him," Anderson repeated again._

_"God, do you think so?" He snapped._

_Sally crossed her arms and spoke loudly, "Look, he's got a point. Someone just shot him from outside, from the window."_

_"Right, and who was around the area in that time? The wife, the neighbors and their 8 home-schooled kids, in addition to the Adair's. Can any of them fire a gun? No, we even looked into that. And even if any of them faked it, how do you explain the body's distance from the window?"_

_Anderson scratched his cheek, "Well, the angle wasn't mathematically impossible..."_

_"We're not seriously considering the idea that children killed Mr. Adair, are we?" Sally laughed in disbelief._

_"I still say we can't rule out suicide-"_

_He cut Anderson off by storming out, "Fine. Start looking for the gun, bullet, and review the alibis for what, the fifth time? And, for Chris'sake, let me know WHEN YOU TWO DECIDE TO START DOING YOUR DAMN JOBS."_

Greg looked at the contact he'd selected to call in his stress. _"Calling... Sherlock Holmes..."_

He hit end, and looked at the blinking image of the now deceased detective. He took a deep breath._ Coffee. Coffee and a doughnut._ That's what he needed at the moment.

He tossed the sticky paper and still-warm coffee cup into the trash outside the morgue. Molly was once again staring off into space. Her blue rubber fingertips were still coated in a liquid that was very likely blood, and her neat ponytail was cocked to one side.

"What're you looking at?" He asked, pulling a file out of his briefcase.

She shook her head and smiled. "Nothing."

Molly was always friendly. But she could also be a bit odd. He remembered the days when he'd walk in on Sherlock performing some horrific experiment on one of the cadavers, and Molly would be nearly as excited about it as he was.

"Do you have time to look over a file for me?" He held out the Adair case. "I need some advice."

She took off her gloves and frowned at the yellow card stock. "John's girlfriend worked for this family..."

Greg quirked an eyebrow. "John's got a girlfriend?"

"He's transitioned from bachelorhood nicely," she gave a small smile that Greg had to appreciate. Molly flipped through the photos and notes. "Who did his post-mortem?"

Greg shrugged. "Not sure."

Molly blushed and hurried to say that she didn't mean it in that way. Necessarily. "It's just that," she chewed her lip. "It's a bit obvious the bullet was dug out of his head... but they didn't say with what. My guess is that you're looking for a knife that's fairly brutal. Something with a bit of a serrated edge, perhaps. The kind of knife you'd want to use to get something like that out would probably be something smaller... anything bigger than a kitchen knife would've been too big. Aside from the rushed cutting, it's not too badly hacked at. The bullet is probably about this big."

It took a moment for him to comprehend her. "That was brilliant. We should've gone to you first."

She gave a crooked smile, and though flustered by his compliment, returned to her work. "No, that's- you didn't have to-"

"I can see why he only ever wanted to work with you," Greg shook his head. "That was... just incredible. My faith in humanity has been restored."

Molly nearly chuckled. "How's sergeant Donovan?"

He gave a wry look. "Making things more difficult than necessary. As always."

They shared a knowing eye roll, and Molly sighed. "I know you're doing your best, Greg. But this family has been hurting for a very long time..."

He nods stiffly. "Yeah, I know. You've been a great help today. To them and us."

Molly seemed to have run out of things to say.

He didn't leave right away, the image of her solemnly returning to her work (her mind full of unease after dealing with the police) triggered a memory in him. She'd always been this way. Fresh out of school, the bright and the rising star of the pathology department. She was always eager and always quick to catch on. And always a bit quirky. Other than that, nothing very special.

He remembers the first time he'd met Sherlock in person (he'd received e-mails and phone calls; Anderson had dealt with him on more than one occasion previously) that she'd been blushing and tripping all over herself. While he and Molly spoke, Sherlock cut in and solved the case from his microscope across the room. A little miffed and disbelieving, he'd brushed him off as some know-it-all rich boy out of Uni. Later, when he'd interviewed Sherlock after the case was closed, he got an earful and soon had written a note for Sherlock Holmes' contact information. He still couldn't remember much of the conversation, because Sherlock had smelled so badly of cigarette smoke he was nearly sick.

When he took up the Consulting Detective on his offer, he couldn't catch him by phone or e-mail. He finally showed up at extravagant flat (far too large for one person, and decorated for royalty) and found him smoking while typing a thesis -sized research report on tobacco ash. A year or so later, Greg and his division were starting to call him "the freak", which was a deserving nickname.

He remembered vividly the day he found Sherlock passed out on the floor in his flat. The trip to the hospital confirmed Greg's suspicions, and he told Sherlock he had to get clean in order to continue working with them.

Somehow, he didn't know quite how, but he started checking in on Sherlock regularly, for a time. Sherlock didn't like this, naturally, but he stopped resisting when he puked all over the DI's shoes. From that day forward, Greg left Sherlock alone more, and Sherlock appeared to shape up. Things became a symbiotic relationship- if not harmonious. He was an immature kid too lazy to find a normal life.

Looking at Molly, as she used to be before his life as a Detective revolved around Sherlock, made him feel a bit nervous and guilty.

"Do you remember what it was like before he came?"

Molly looked over her shoulder briefly, her mind whirring. "Yes." She said at last. "It was boring, wasn't it?"

* * *

When the doors closed behind her,she ripped off her gloves and ran to the cabinets she'd been staring at before Greg had walked in. Checking to be sure she was the only one around, she dragged a stool over and wobbled atop it. Using her littlest fingers, she tugged on the wedged object. It didn't want to budge, but when it finally did, she found with a shock that it was exactly what she had thought it was.

_"Let's start with the riding crop."_

* * *

Mary hung up the phone and sat heavily down on the couch. She curled into his side, and rested her set brow against his chest.

"What's wrong?" He knew the answer already.

"Molly said your friend Greg Lestrade came to the morgue to ask her advice on Mr. Adair's death." Mary's lip trembled for a moment, but her jaw clenched and she shoved off. "She said we'll all probably be questioned again. John, this can't be how it normally is!"

He realized that he actually didn't know how cases unraveled without Sherlock Holmes. It was a strange thought to have crossed his mind in such a casual way. Granted, he'd actively avoided all conversation about Sherlock for as long as he could think back. His therapist told him this avoidance was just another path of denial. He didn't care. It was easier this way.

Mary was ranting again. She had a temper that was terrifying when it flared up, still- it made her cute. "I mean, how difficult can it be? He would've never killed himself! How hard can it be to find one murderer in London? It can't really take this long, can it?"

He smirked, "Yeah, finding a murderer in London. Should be as easy to spot as a fly in your soup, right?"

"Don't do that, John, you know I hate it when you mock me." She paced the house, cleaning something here, something there. Her irritability panged his heart in more than one way.

"I know the detectives working on this case, Mary." He said later that evening while she scrubbed his bathroom tile. "Let me talk to them."

She shook her head, eyes red from more than tile cleansers. "We've talked about this."

"Yeah," He pushed forward, and sat down on the toilet so she'd be forced to look at him. Not one of their most romantic interactions. "But I'm fine."

"No you're not."

He growled and shifted his weight, bringing his fist under his chin. She could really test his patience. "Okay. Okay,_ fine_. If I'm not alright, you're not either and we're both messed up and you're too moody to sleep with me anymore and I'm too much of a mess to make you happy. Is that it?"

She glared at him, then angrily fussed with her rubber gloves and tossed the brush down in the tub. "Now's when you want to talk about our relationship? What the _hell_ does that have to do with this?"

"You worry too much!" He nearly shouts. "You won't let me take this case!"

"You're not a detective John! You're a doctor!" Her shouting has nearly bent her in half. "This is exactly what we were all afraid of!"

"Really? You and Molly Hooper? And who else, Mrs. Hudson? I'm tired of you women treating me like I'm psychologically unstable!" He yells after her.

"That's because you _are!_" She slams the door in his face.

"This is my bedroom." He growls, opening it and standing above her with crossed arms as she screams into a pillow.

As she screamed herself out, he began to feel terrible. John sat on the bed with the intention to apologize.

"I just want you to be careful." She sniffs, hair sticking to her wet face.

"...I love you."

He hasn't said that to anyone in a very_ very_ long time. He felt incredibly foolish.

"I love you too." Her voice is gentle and fragile.

Then Mary's kissing him, and she's everywhere and nothing else matters. He's so consumed with her that he barely registers the words she says breathily in his ear.

* * *

Songs to keep you company: (if you catch repeats, let me know and I'll give extras next time :)

-You, Sailor by Erin McKeown

-Big Black Car by Gregory Alan Isakov

-Jessi by Kris Orlowski


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